


Black Robe

by esama



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-19 20:15:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 59,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14880483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: In which the Auditore Family gets an early warning.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Proofread credit to nimadge

Federico leans back onto the parapet of the rooftop garden, idly tilting the half empty bottle in hand. He was supposed to meet an informant there, but the thief had failed to show up. That in and of itself isn't terribly unusual – thieves come and go as fortunes treat them, good or bad, and it's hardly the first time he's been stood up on a rooftop.

It's been happening more and more, though – and Federico likes this one. Biagino is a cheat and a liar and hardly the best thief of the city, but he is fun once you got couple cups into him – and great source of gossip. There's nothing better than gossip prone thief when you're trying to manage an information network – so as long as you knew not to give them any gossip you did not want spread around.

Problem with them is that they hardly ever live long – and lately…

Federico leans his head back against the side wall of the garden and sighs. Third time just this week that he's been stood up by an informant. Once it had been a courtesan who had then been found dead. Next it had been a mercenary, who had had a sudden change of heart about working with the Assassins. Now, a thief too? It's not good. There's something going on in the city – a blind man could see it. Something is disturbing the usual status quo and he doesn't much like it. It even has Father worried, which is even worse.

It's a beautiful night out, if nothing else. The moon is almost full over the rooftops of Florence, and there's a thin mist down in the city streets – it makes it look as if the rooftops float over an ocean of grey, glowing in the moonlight. Not even slightest stirrings of wind in the air, either – if it wasn't for the rowdy fight happening in the tavern below and the joyous marital fun a young couple is having in one of the tavern's rooms, it would've been perfectly silent.

Couldn't have gotten stood up on a more perfect night, Federico muses and uncorks the wine bottle. He'd aimed to give it to Biagino as an extra reward, on top of the usual sum of florins, but since the thief is nowhere to be seen…

There's a rasp of foot on roof tile and Federico turns his head just in time to see a shadow sprinting silently over the rope that connected the tavern roof to the smithy's on the other side of the street. Red tunic, faded blue pantaloons – Biagino.

"Any of that for me?" the thief asks while jumping onto the flat platform where the garden has been pitched up. "I'm parched!"

"You're late is what you are," Federico answers and pushes the cork back in the bottle. "Trouble?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle. Some Pazzi bastards were roughing up some of the boys – we set them straight," Biagino grins ferociously and crouches down beside him. He has a new bruise on his cheek. "Come on, young master, I'm dying of thirst. Give it here."

"Only if you have something for me," Federico says and holds the bottle out of reach. "Let's hear it."

Biagino pouts at him theatrically but launches into the most recent gossip amongst the thieves. Most of it's about marks – fat men and dolled up women with even more impressive money pouches. There's also those who have become too dangerous for the thieves of Florence to make a go at – the Pazzi, Federico is unsurprised to find, are climbing higher on that list. They're increasing security at their palazzo, sending their lackeys around the city, making general nuisance of themselves. None of it's precisely news but… it's ramping up speed it looks like.

Almost as if they know something's coming, Federico thinks grimly. "And it's just the Pazzi doing this?" Federico asks. "Anyone else bolstering their household staff's with new swords?"

"Just the Pazzi and their bootlickers," Biagino says. "There's that Baroncelli, he's hired some new guards at his house, but that's about it."

Federico nods slowly. Banker hiring more guards is not that strange, but in light of everything else… "Thank you Biagino," he says. "Can you keep an eye on the situation, see if they move to hire more people?"

"So as long as you pay. Time I spend looking is time I don't spend thieving and man's gotta earn a living," Biagino says and then holds out his hand meaningfully. "Speaking of which."

"You don't have anything else?" Federico asks suspiciously – he won't pay until he knows he's gotten everything out of the man. He made the mistake of paying Biagino early once, and ended up paying the man _twice_. He's not going to repeat that mistake.

Biagino grins and leans back. "Well there's also this," he says and takes something from inside his tunic – a folded piece of paper, unsealed, outwardly unmarked. "To be delivered to the Auditore post haste."

"You had a message and you didn't open with it?" Federico asks flatly.

"Business is business," Biagino says with a wink and holds the letter between his fore and middle finger. "Now what's it worth to you?"

Thieves. Federico smothers the urge to roll his eyes and tilts the bottle. "Trade?"

"Federico," Biagino says, stretching the last syllable with mocking sadness. "You can do better than that, my friend."

Federico sighs, and takes out his money pouch from inside his doublet. Watching Biagino's expression carefully he starts counting coins, one by one – when the thief's eyelid twitches with the slightest tell of smug glee, he stops. "You've been paid for that message already, haven't you?" Federico asks suspiciously.

"Tch," Biagino answers and then tries for an imploring expression. "My coffers are empty, Federico, I go hungry every other day!"

"You go drunk and sick every other day. I am a _banker_ , Biagino – you can't swindle the professional," Federico says and holds out his hand. "Hand it over."

"You _were_ a banker," Biagino mutters. "From what I heard you got thrown out on your ass – from your family's own bank, too. Not much to boast about, that." Still, with an utterly exasperated sigh, Biagino holds the letter out for Federico to snatch from his hand. "Tch."

With his money pouch safely tucked away, Federico unfolds the letter and finds – nothing. "You brought me an… empty piece of paper?" he asks dubiously and then looks up with exaggerated incredulity. "You were going to ask double pay for an _empty piece of paper_? Biagino, my friend…"

Biagino shrugs, relentless. "Money is short and times are hard, Federico," he says.

"Yes it must be, for you to ask pay for delivery of nothing," Federico mutters and then frowns. Still… "Someone paid you to deliver this to me?"

"To an Auditore," Biagino shrugs. "It was a creepy bastard that paid me – it was fifty florins, too. Just told me to get it to an Auditore as quick as I could."

"And when was this?"

"Just couple of hours ago, before we got into our little dance with the Pazzi thugs."

Federico nods slowly. That's… not bad, for Biagino. The sender must've left quite an impression. Still, fifty florins for an empty piece of paper? His eyes narrowing, Federico looked the letter over again. He still can't see anything written on it – but there are slightest impressions of strokes there. Not empty, then – the writing must be invisible – or written as impressions which dusting of charcoal might reveal.

"Well I thank you for this highly valuable piece of empty paper, Biagino," Federico says and quickly tucks the letter under his doublet. "And this… creepy bastard?" he then asks, looking up. "You didn't know him?"

"No. I guess he wasn't that creepy, just… strange," Biagino says and scratches at his swollen cheek. "He was dressed in monk's habit, but he didn't move like no monk I've ever seen. I don't know. Seemed bit off to me."

"… A monk's habit," Federico repeats, thinking fast. A robe, then. "He was hooded? What was the colour of the habit?"

"Black?" Biagino asks, giving him a strange look. "Yeah he was hooded, you know, like a _monk_. Had a rosary and everything."

"Ah." Not the traditional Assassin robe then. Still, very interesting. "And where was this?"

Biagino shrugs. "Near the western gates," he says. "I was taking a look-see at the people coming in when he walked up to me out of the blue. Never saw him coming, nearly scared the wine out of me."

"Did he give a name?" Federico asks, and Biagino shakes his head. Damn. "Did you see where he went?"

"Can't say I cared to look," Biagino shrugs. "There were other monks coming in – I lost him in the crowd. Looked like he was coming in rather than going though, so chances are he's still here."

Well that's even more interesting, isn't it? "Is there anything else?"

Biagino makes a show of thinking about it. "Well unless you care about the troubles of whores and killers, no," he says. "I doubt it."

"I do care about the troubles of all the peoples of Florence – but perhaps another time," Federico says and stands up. "Thank you, Biagino. Keep an eye about, and if you spot the monk again, try and see where he's staying?"

"That'll cost you extra – speaking of which," Biagino holds out a hand. "Cough it up."

"You have already been paid for the letter," Federico says defensively.

" _Yes_ – but not for the information. You wouldn't want a reputation of being stingy, would you now, young master?"

Federico gives him a look. "You'll bleed me dry one day, my friend," he says forlornly.

"The day the Auditore pockets empty will be a sad day indeed – but it is not today," Biagino says and waves his fingers. "Pay up. And make it good."

Federico pays the thief with another sigh, watching the coins run out with a sad look. Biagino grins and salutes him with the half bottle of wine before heading off without further word, racing from one rooftop to another and then disappearing into the mist. Federico shakes his head after the man and then takes out the empty letter

Try as he might concentrate and narrow his eyes and squint… he hasn't been blessed with Ezio's gifts – the invisible writing refuses to reveal itself to him. Pity.

Well, Father would know how to read it.

* * *

 

The palazzo is quiet as Federico scales the rooftop and then drops carefully increment by increment into the inner courtyard. Even the maid is no longer on duty, and everything is quiet. Or, almost quiet.

"Federico! You scared the hell out of me," Ezio hisses from the shadows of the pillars and Federico almost jumps out of his skin.

"Ezio, what are you doing?" he hisses back.

"Uh, same as you – sneaking in?" Ezio asks, nodding towards the pillars – apparently, they'd just missed each other on the rooftops. "Where have you been?

"Where have _you_ been?"

"Where you _think_?"

They look each other and then grin, bursting into giggles and then hissing at each other to, "Shush, be quiet, you'll wake everyone," and then giggling even harder, badly smothered in their palms.

It is pretty obvious where Ezio's been that night, even if he didn't go and visit Cristina most every night – for this night she'd left marks. Federico grins at the redness of his brother's throat. "For tomorrow's choice of outfit I recommend a neckcloth, Brother," he says and grabs Ezio to a head lock. "You look as if a vixen mauled you. Had a pleasant night, then?" he asks, and pokes at the bruises.

Ezio somehow manages to blush at that. "It was an extremely pleasant night, thank you," he says, and tries to wring himself out of Federico's hold. "And you, whose bed did you grace tonight?"

"Ah, a downright _thief's_ – came and went with my money," Federico sighs. "An unworthy transaction it was."

"And you call yourself an Auditore," Ezio says mockingly. "Maybe it is time I give you some tips for a change, for it seems your luck with the ladies has deserted you."

Federico smiles and ruffles his brother's hair. "Cristina is a catch, Brother, but don't get full of yourself now. You still have much to learn," he says. "Now come, off to bed with you."

"It should have been bedtime for both of you hours ago," a voice snaps out and Federico feels Ezio flinch slightly under his arms. "Ezio, where have you been?"

"Er, out and about?" Ezio says, squirming, as their father steps out through open door – which neither of them had heard being opened. Sometimes, having a Master Assassin for a father was a little unfair.

"Out and about around the Vespucci house," Federico says and grins as Ezio squawks at him. "I'm sure it was no harm, Father."

"I will be the judge of that," Giovanni says, stepping out of the shadows and looking at both of them with unimpressed expression. "Cristina Vespucci, again, Ezio?"

"She is the loveliest flower in all of Florence, Father," Ezio says, grinning and earnest like a puppy even while trying to break Federico's wrist to free himself from his grip. "Her virtue is beyond bounds."

"I suppose it would have to be, to endure you this long. Indeed, she must be a saint," Federico agrees.

"Federico, please, go fuck yourself," Ezio hisses under his breath and then offers their father an awkward grin. "I swear, Father, no one saw me, I made no incident, I mean, her father –"

"Indeed, _her father_ , who has already brought me many complaints about your indiscretions," Giovanni says severely, giving Ezio a pointed look. "One day soon I will either have to start negotiating your engagement to marry the girl... or your enclosure at a convent. Which one will it be, Ezio?"

Ezio goes pale. "I'll be more discreet?" he offers weakly.

" _Please_ ," Giovanni says, giving him a look of fond amusement. Then he looks at Federico. "And where have you been, my oldest, my bright and joy?" he asks dryly. "Leaving more sacks of money on rooftops?"

Federico coughs. He's never going to live down getting caught doing that, is he? "I –"

"He let some thief of a woman run away with his money," Ezio says gleefully. "And it wasn't even worth it."

"Brother, you would betray me so?" Federico hisses under his breath into Ezio hair, clenching his arm around his brother's neck warningly.

"To get Father off my back? In a heartbeat," Ezio hisses right back just as quietly.

"A thief?" Giovanni asks, giving them a look and then throws his hands up. "What will I do with the two of you? Monasteries, monasteries for both of you!"

"God, please, no, the _horror_ ," Federico says with exaggerated dread while Ezio laughs. "We'd wither away and _die_."

Giovanni sighs and then chuckles, giving up. "Off to bed, Ezio," he says. "And tomorrow try and restrain yourself. Your manhood will not suffer from a day of abstinence."

"It _might_ ," Ezio objects and finally wrings himself free of Federico's hold. "And why aren't you telling Federico that?"

"Because I know Federico will be too busy tomorrow to even think it," Giovanni says and gives him a considering look. "I might find some work for you as well, now that I think about it –"

"Yes, well, I'm sure it would be fun but, er, I am quite tired all of sudden – good night Father, _Brother_ ," Ezio says and then he all but flees into the house, disappearing into the shadows.

Federico and Giovanni look after him and share a chuckle. "I despair over our family business, I really do," Giovanni mutters. "What will happen to us once I am gone? There's not a shred of banker in either of you. Both my sons, so reckless!"

"Indeed, we're all doomed," Federico agrees. "Place all your hopes on Petruccio or prepare for ruin."

Giovanni sighs. "Sometimes I fear I must," he says and then gives him a look. "You are out late, Federico. Did something happen?"

"Biagino was late – he got into some scuffle with Pazzi thugs. News was the usual – Pazzi are still strengthening their security, hiring more lackeys…" Federico says and then takes out the note. "He had this, though. From a man he described as a creepy or at least an unusual monk."

"A creepy unusual monk," Giovanni says flatly and accepts the letter. His eyebrows rise and then lower when he finds it empty. "Right – into my study," he says and turns to head inside, Federico following shortly after. "When was the letter delivered?"

Federico tells him all he learned from Biagino – which is not much, all told, but it's something to start with. Giovanni studies the letter in mean while, looking for means to read it – shining candle light through it and feeling at the impressions on it before frowning.

"Some sort of invisible ink?" Federico asks.

Giovanni sniffs the letter delicately. "None I know of – there is no scent here, only paper," he says. "I daren't use potions on it before I know which type of ink was used – use the wrong type and it might dissolve the message. Hmm… Tell me again what Biagino said, maybe there was some clue given as to which type this is?"

Federico runs through the conversation again, but nothing about it stood out to him as a clue. Either the monk had not said, or Biagino had completely missed it.

"That is troubling," Giovanni muses. "A man in disguise delivering a message to us in such manner, it might be important."

"Should we get Ezio?" Federico asks.

Giovanni considers it and then folds his arms, indecisive. "He's still young, and not knowing what secret is on this letter… I will consider it further, test it with what I have. If I can't get the writing out of it by morning, then I will have Ezio use his talent," he decides and then looks up. "How is Ezio doing?" he asks then, his tone changing. "He came in through the roof, didn't he?"

Federico shrugs. "Teaching him to scale buildings has made him a menace. He's brilliant at it – he's taken to the rooftops of Florence like he was born to fly," he says wryly. "And fall – but he does even that with skill." Or at least with a thick skull.

Giovanni hums and nods. "It tends to be that the gifted ones take to our skills the fastest," he muses and looks away. "Still… he is young."

Federico folds his arms at that and hums in agreement. He'd been Ezio's age when his training had started – three years in, he's still barely an Assassin. He's not yet permitted his own missions, never mind assassinations, though – Ezio is farther away still from that grim future.

But in Ezio's case it had been a future never envisioned for him. Federico was meant to carry that mantle alone as the future head of house while Ezio enjoyed the liberty of being a mere nobleman and nobleman's son. Honestly, Federico would have preferred it that way too, only then Ezio had developed the gift – Assassin's Second Sight – and the choice was made for all of them by fate. Whether Ezio suspects anything yet is hard to say – he knows his sight is special but it has yet to alter his behaviour or nature in any way.

"He will make a magnificent Assassin, Father," Federico says – and believes it with all his heart. "But you are right – a few more years to grow up and settle might not go amiss there."

"Considering how stirred the city is becoming, it might be time we cannot afford," Giovanni says grimly and looks at the empty letter. "Something is coming, Federico – a power shift, perhaps, certainly a coup is in the works and I fear what might stand behind it, powering it. Ezio can't afford to remain child forever."

Federico nods and looks away, at the unlit fireplace. "If push comes to shove, I think Ezio can rise to the occasion. He has… talent," he admits. "Even beyond the gift he possesses. If he must, he can be dutiful, even honourable. I think if forced to, Ezio can set aside his distractions."

But what that would do to his brother's spirit, Federico doesn't like to think.

Father must be thinking something similar, for his frown is very conflicted. "Perhaps some small tasks to start with," he muses. "Running messages between informants, that sort of thing."

"As good a start as any," Federico agrees. "Should I start him on hand to hand combat?" He can already think of a few taverns where they could orchestrate some good old fashioned bar fights for Ezio to learn on. The mercenaries would be all over it, putting an Auditore through their paces…

"Perhaps," Giovanni says and then takes a seat by his desk. "If you can manage it without rousing suspicion I'll leave it to you, Federico. Now in think I will try and solve the mystery of this letter."

Federico nods. "Do you know who it might've been from, Father?" Are there any Assassin moving in on Florence that his father might know about?

Though if it was an Assassin, then why not simply announce himself to the Assassins already present?

"I have a suspicion, but nothing more than that," Giovanni says and looks up. "If I know nothing more by morrow, then your brother's gift should tell us something. Good night, Federico."

"Good night, Father."

* * *

 

Federico wakes late the next morning – by then Mother has already visited the market and she and the maid are done with breakfast preparations. And considering that in Auditore house breakfast tends to run later than in most houses, it's late indeed.

Ah, the schedules of thieves and ladies of the night – how they mess an Assassin's life.

"And where were you so late last night, Federico?" Maria Auditore demands when he makes it to the breakfast table. "Even Ezio was awake before you."

"He was?" Federico asks, impressed. Maybe Ezio's had caught some sleep at Cristina's bed before being chased out of it, the dog. "I was enjoying the night, Mother, taking in the air."

"Indeed?" Maria asks. "And how was the nightly air, my son?"

Federico considers Petruccio sitting across from him. "Crowded," he settles on saying. "Did Ezio head out already?"

"He tried to but he had such a guilty look on his face that I made him stay, just in case," Maria says and shakes her head. "He should be in his room. He had _better_ be in his room or so help me."

Federico laughs at that. "Father threatened him with work last night. Probably a good thing you kept him in, Mother, otherwise I doubt we'd see him all day."

"Oh dear," Maria sighs. "Do we have another visit from the Vespucci to look forward to today?"

"I think we might."

Maria tuts. "We really must to find Ezio a hobby one of these days," she muses and looks up, "Good morning, Claudia," she greets her only daughter. "A letter with your name arrived this morning – a runner brought it just as we came from the market."

"A letter?" Claudia asks and immediately brightens. "It must be from – oh, where is it, I must read it at once!"

"It is by the mantelpiece," Maria says and Claudia flounces right off, all but clasping her hands to her heart.

"Duccio?" Federico asks, amused.

"Duccio," Maria agrees with a sigh. "It's swear my children have only one thing in mind – except for you, Petruccio, please don't you ever fall for the vices of your brothers and sister."

"I won't, Mother," Petruccio agrees sweetly and Maria presses a kiss on his hair before moving to fetch something from the kitchen. Petruccio turns to Federico. "What kind of vices do you have, Brother?" he asks curiously.

"All of them," Federico says solemnly. "I am a terrible terrible person and you should never take my example."

Petruccio grins and in the living room Claudia lets out a delighted shriek. "I love him!" she announces to the kitchen. "Nobody bother me – I'm going to write right back to him! Aah, I love him!" and then she's gone.

Federico and Petruccio look after her and then share a look. "Don't follow her example either," Federico says seriously.

Petruccio makes a face. "Wasn't going to."

Federico grins and together they tug into the food.

Giovanni comes in a little after that, looking tired and a little irritated. No luck on the letter, then, Federico thinks while Petruccio pipes out, "Good morning, Father!"

"Good morning, my sons," Giovanni says, smoothing a hand over Petruccio hair and clasping Federico by the shoulder as he passes him by. "And where are the rest of my children?"

"Claudia is off writing a love letter to Duccio," Federico reports while Petruccio makes a face, "And Mother put Ezio into pre-emptive house arrest because apparently he looked guilty."

"Like a cat that got caught in the birdcage – and the fact he didn't even argue me proved there was cause," Maria Auditore says, carrying in a basket of freshly baked bread. "Good morning, my love," she greets her husband.

"My dearest Maria," Giovanni answers with a loving smile and takes a moment to kiss her. And then kiss her again. And again until the maid has to rescue the bread basket as the Master and the Mistress make an embarrassment out of themselves.

Really, with this kind of example how would the Auditore children grow up any other way, Federico muses wryly. There has never been a man and woman so obnoxious in love as their parents. Honestly no one in this whole household has any shame. Even their maid is a former prostitute, for God's sake.

Somehow they manage to finish the breakfast, with a plate set aside for the absentee Claudia and some left over bread left for Ezio in case he gets hungry before the next meal – which seeing as he ate hour before everyone else, he might. While Maria, Petruccio and the maid move to clean up the rest, Federico follows his father to the study,

Federico isn't surprised to find papers strewn about Giovanni's desk – along with several phials of various concoctions he'd no doubt used to try and decode the message. The letter itself sits in the middle – still blank. It doesn't look like Father has had any luck reading it despite having spent what looks like all night trying.

"Nothing?" Federico asks.

"Whatever means it is written with, they eclipse my knowledge of such things," Giovanni says. "We know there are means of writing which are only visible to those with the gift, however – rare as they are in actual use. I suspect there is no other way of reading this message, except with Ezio's eyes."

Federico frowns a little. "Does anyone know that Ezio has the gift?" He asks worriedly.

"No, I have made it a point to keep it a secret for now – but the talent is known to run in the family. Your grandfather had it," Giovanni admits. "So one might expect it to be commonplace among the Auditore, if they knew my father. In any case… we need Ezio. Go and fetch your brother, Federico."

"And if the message is something… revealing?" Federico asks, arching a brow.

"We will deal with it accordingly," Giovanni says and looks at him seriously. "There is no doubt now that the message came from a fellow Assassin – and as such, it must be important. We need to know. If this means your brother will learn our truths earlier than intended then so be it. Now go get him."

"Yes, Father," Federico says and nods his head, before going to fetch Ezio.

Turns out Ezio probably hadn't slept at Cristina's bed after all – for he's fast asleep and dead to the world when Federico eases his brother's door open. Ezio is also drooling all over his pillow. Delightful.

Federico considers his brother for a moment. If there wasn't the matter of the letter he'd go to fetch a cup of water and pour it all over Ezio's baby cheeked face, but alas... duty comes first.

So instead he grabs a pillow from the floor and goes beat Ezio over the head with it.

"Rise and shine, Brother dearest, it's a beautiful bright day outside, the birds are singing, the ladies are –" Federico says cheerfully while trying to smother Ezio with the pillow, "- up and about and you are missing out –"

"Federi – Federico what the hell –" Ezio yowls and tries to kick him. "Get off me, you bastard –!"

Federico grins and pins Ezio under the pillow for a moment before easing off. Ezio glares past the pillow's edge, his hair sticking every which way. Adorable. "Father wants to see you," Federico tells him.

"And you couldn't just say that?" Ezio demands and kicks him off his bed. "Bastard."

"You know that's an insult to you as much as it to me?" Federico asks and catches the pillow Ezio throws at his head. "Well you woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Didn't get your beauty sleep in? Gotta keep that pretty face in shape you know, it's all you got."

"Go drown in a bucket of piss, Federico – why are you so cheerful this morning?"

"Something you'll learn in time; nothing cheers you up quite like making someone else – particularly a foolish baby brother – miserable. Now come on, Father is waiting for us."

Ezio stumbles after him, groaning irritably all the way until they make their way to their father's study. Giovanni has cleaned up his desk somewhat, setting the bottles and phials aside – the letter is still there though.

"Good morning, Ezio," Giovanni greets his middle son, smothering a snort at Ezio's bed head. "I see you are ready for a hard and productive day of labour."

Ezio's eyes widen a little before his shoulders slump. "Yes, Father," he sighs. "What do you want me to do? Run messages?"

Giovanni laughs while Federico grins – Ezio sounds so broken, the poor lush. "To start with, come here and read this letter for me," Giovanni says, motioning to the desk.

Ezio goes warily and peers at the page. "It's empty?" he more asks than states.

"With your gift, you dolt," Federico snorts and slaps him on the back lightly. "Use that special vision of yours."

"Uh – right, I knew that," Ezio says a bit defensively and then closes his eyes briefly.

When he opens them, they're gone from brown to bright, almost golden amber.

Federico watches on a bit wistfully and notes their father doing the same. Ezio doesn't even know how precious and special his talent is and it comes to him so effortlessly. Usually it takes years of training and for some – like Giovanni – it never comes at all despite decades of trying. Federico still might have the chance to develop it but Ezio… Ezio just had it.

If Federico didn't love him so much, then by God he'd be so jealous of him.

"What does it say, Son?" Giovanni asks after long period of silence.

"Well, uh," Ezio says and scratches at his cheek. "On the top it says _Uberto Alberti is a Templar_?"

Federico's heart skips a beat and on other side of Ezio their father goes instantly pale with horror.

Oblivious, Ezio continues, "Then there's a list of names under it. _Rodrigo Borgia, Grandmaster. Jacopo de' Pazzi, Francesco de' Pazzi, Francesco Salviati, Bernardo Baroncelli, Antonio Maffei, Stefano da Bagnone, Vieri de' Pazzi_ …" Ezio makes a face. "What is this list, why is Vieri on it?"

Federico shares a look with his father, both of them wide eyed.

The Templar Order. Someone had given them the Templar Order – what's worse, they know most of the names on that list. Some of those names belong to allies.

And the one right on top is one of the closest confidantes of the Assassins' Brotherhood.


	2. Chapter 2

While Father sets out looking to find some proof of the message's warning, Federico searches for the Monk. Neither he nor his father has much confidence in finding the man though – considering the nature of the message, it's delivery and the choice of disguises, it's obvious enough that they are dealing with no novice, but a fully fledged Master Assassin.

"Still, we must try," Giovanni said to him seriously before sending him off. "Should this message be proven true, and I fear it very well might, then he has not only done us a great service, but the nature in which he did it rises some troubling questions. Why not come to us directly, why not deliver this message in person, when he can offer some proof, or at least anecdotes, to prove his words? For an Assassin to hide himself from other Assassins…"

"You think people might be looking for the man?"

"That I do not know, but it is a possibility. This kind of knowledge cannot have come cheap. So you must take care, my Son – stay out of sight, and should you find this assassin and should he prove himself hostile or indeed trouble… keep your distance."

Federico fears it might be easier done than said in this case. Man in a monk's habit – he'd disappear amidst the hundreds of monks present in Florence and it's many churches and convents and blend in, all but invisible. And if the man has discarded his disguise, then searching for him will be worse still – there is _nothing_ to go on.

Nothing but whatever Biagino had seen, and all he had made note of was the robe. Still… it's the only lead they have, what Biagino had seen.

So, it is him Federico searches out the first, making his way through the city and to the den of the thieves. He is greeted there with a mix of open friendliness and even more open suspicion – though allies, the thieves and the Assassins rarely like to be seen together, after all. Both are ruin for each other's reputation.

"Greetings, Elda," Federico greets the first friendly thief he sees, one of his many informants and runners. "How are you on this fine day, my dear?"

"Bored and short on entertainment," Elda answers and cocks her hips at him suggestively. Then she takes in his expression and sighs. "What do you want then, Federico – and what is it worth to me?"

Federico offers her an apologetic smile. No time for fun today, unfortunately, and Elda could be quite fun indeed. "I am looking for Biagino," he says and takes out a coin. "Might you know where I can find him?"

She considers the coin and then snatches it from his hand. "Last I heard he was heading to La Rosa Colta – spending the coin he's earned from you, no doubt," Elda says and gives him a once over. "Whatever you have for him, I'm sure I can do it quicker."

"Alas, darling Elda, it's not about what I have for him, but what he has for me," Federico says and nods to her. "Many thanks."

He heads to La Rosa Colta right away, taking the quickest route – with thieves you never know how long their leisure lasts, and with Paola in charge it's hard to tell how long she will endure it anyway. She's known to kick out many paying customers for overstaying their welcome, even at the face of more coin offered. And Biagino, Federico knows, can overstay his welcome fast.

"Federico," he is greeted by the door. "We could see you coming from half a mile away. Scaling the rooftops is not the most stealthy way of moving."

"It is, however, the fastest," Federico says and takes the hand offered to him, kissing Paola's knuckles. "Madame Paola, an utmost pleasure as always."

"Discretion, Federico," she answers and brushes her knuckles over his cheek. "I know you can blend in a crowd, I taught you myself – and I wish you used it more when visiting us. A man running the rooftops raises questions. Now come – what can I do for you?"

Father had forbidden sharing the information given to them in the empty letter – if Gonfalonieri Alberti can betray them, then there is no knowing who else might have. There is also the chance that the letter is in fact fake and conceived to sow dissent among their ranks. For now, they could trust no one with the information, not even their own, not until the knowledge was proven true or false.

So Federico says nothing about the threat, feeling a little ill at ease about it. She is one of his teachers and a fellow Assassin, and keeping things from her feels low. "I am looking for Biagino and heard I might find him here," he says instead.

"He is here," Paola agrees. "And quite taken with Mariella and Lorena, as it is. I fear you might have to wait… unless it is so important that you must disturb the work here."

Federico hesitates. If he does, it will rouse her suspicion about the importance of the matter, if he doesn't… he might miss an unseen opportunity to find the monk. "I'm afraid I must," Federico says and grimaces. "Biagino brought us some information yesterday, delivered to him by a man in disguise. We must find this man now, and the sooner I learn what Biagino might have seen, the better my chances in tracking him down."

"I see," Paola says, looking him over. Federico tries to not squirm – he will not break Father's confidence willingly, but Paola reads people like no one else and he wouldn't be surprised if she could read the secret from his eyes alone. "Wait here," is all she says in the end, before heading off.

Running a hand through his hair, Federico looks around himself, at the front hall of the brothel. There are a few girls at loose ends, who wink at him and wave their fingers – he smiles in return, but makes no move to join them.

He doesn't think Paola could ever betray them, not after all their family has done for hers, and all she has done for them. The bond there is far too thick for a Templar's knife to sever. Paola isn't concerned with politics the same way Uberto Alberti is, either, so what cause might she have to betray them? They bring her more business than they take from her, surely.

Still… the message has painted shadows on walls previously clear and everything seems so unsure now.

"Whatever this is about, your father has forbidden you from speaking of it, hasn't he?" Paola says, coming to his side again. Federico gives her a startled look and she smiles. "You have still much to learn about keeping secrets, my dear Federico – you might hide them in your expression, but your eyes still give you away."

"Yes, Madame, I am sorry," Federico says and lets his shoulders slump. "I can tell you no more."

"I trust your father's discretion," she chuckles. "Let him know that whatever is afoot here, La Rosa Colta stands behind him, always."

"I will, Madame, thank you," Federico says and bows his head.

Paola brushes past him. "Your eyes are too kind, Federico, they still give you away," she says. "A hood might not go amiss."

Federico swallows, a throb of _want_ running through him. An Assassin's hood… he hasn't earned it yet but oh, to wear the _hood…_ "You are so kind, Madame, I am truly honoured. I'll tell my father you recommended my promotion then, shan't I?" he asks, a little cheekily.

Her cheeks dimple with a smile. "You do that, little one," she says fondly and heads away.

 _Little_ – he's taller than her. Federico looks after her and then shakes his head as from the upper floor, couple of girls prod and poke and push at Biagino to send him down the stairs – it's a near thing that the thief doesn't fall all over himself. His laces are undone, his boots hanging by his arm and his pantaloons are dragging the floor

"Oh," Biagino says at the sight of him. "Federico, you did not just – if I got thrown out of bed on your word, I might actually try and do you harm."

"Please don't, Biagino, for I would have to retaliate and I'd hate to lose a good informant," Federico says and glances around for an open corner where they could talk. "I only need a few words – please. I'll make it worth your while."

"I was hip deep in something worth my while! And it was far more worth my while than you!" Biagino grumbles but looks him over, automatically searching for a money pouch the way thieves always do. Federico smiles and pats his chest – Father had replenished his, and it jingles merrily under his doublet. "Oh, _fine_ ," Biagino mutters. "But you had better make it fast, there's a bed up there still warm and waiting for me."

"That depends on you, my friend," Federico says and ushers Biagino away from overhearing ears. "That monk from yesterday," he says then, his tone low. "I need every single thing you remember of him. Details, features, anything. Was he tall, short, fair, dark, anything?"

"Oh, good god with you people," Biagino mutters. "I barely looked at him – he just handed me the note and the money and told me to find an Auditore! It was barely a minute!"

"Please, Biagino," Federico says. "It's important. I'll take anything you remember, anything at all."

The thief lets out a annoyed groan and lets his boots drop on the floor so that he could lace up his pantaloons properly. With his modesty thusly ensured, he runs hands through his surprisingly clean hair – must have spent some coin on a bath before coming here, then. "Well," he says finally. "He was taller than me – taller than you, I think. Not by much, but I had to look up at him."

"About how tall?" Federico asks eagerly.

Biagino holds a hand a little above both their heads. "About so and so?"

"And his skin – dark or fair?"

"He was hooded, his face was in the shadow – how would I know?" Biagino muttered and then makes a face. "Although – yes, I think, yes, he had a scar," he says then, and Federico all but perks up at the sound of it. "Right here," the thief says and runs a thumb over his lips. "Cutting through both lips."

"That's excellent, Biagino, that is very good," Federico says excitedly – a facial scar would make the man much easier to find. "Do you remember anything else? He spoke to you – how was his voice? Low or high? Did he have an accent?"

Biagino considers it. "He was quiet, speaking so as to not be overheard, so I didn't really make note of the voice. No accent that I could tell, but he only said a few words."

Federico frowns. That's not very helpful at all. "Anything else, Biagino? You said he was creepy, unusual – how?"

The thief shrugs. "Just didn't move like a monk. Too damn quick and smooth. And sometimes you get that feeling with people – that it isn't worth it trying to pick their pockets, you know?"

Federico nods slowly at that. Master Assassin wouldn't be safe to steal from, no. "I think I get your meaning, yes," he says. Taller than average with scarred lips – it's not much to go on, but it's something. And there's something about a scar across the lips – it sounds familiar somehow…

"Does anything else come to mind, Biagino? Even the smallest thing might be important. His hands, for example – did he have scars on his hands?" Like, say, the initiation scar. Or if he was missing a finger – in some places the Assassins still did that, after all, and if the man lacked a finger… it might indicate a place of origin.

Biagino thinks on it and then shakes his head. "He wore gloves, so I wouldn't have seen anything even if there was something. Yeah, I think that's all I got," he says and then gives him a pointed look. "And it's way past the time I return to bed, so if you please…" he holds out his hand.

Federico gives him a look. A monk wearing gloves and Biagino didn't think it was important enough to mention. "Let's go over this again," he says and Biagino groans. "He was taller than both of us, had scar across his lips, gloved hands. What about his eyes –?"

"Federico, for the love of god, he wore a hood – how would I know?" Biagino snaps. "And you know what, if you have nothing better to do than waste my time when I could be having so much better time upstairs, then – "

"Biagino –"

"No, I am done with you, Ser Federico, now pay me or find yourself a new informant. Forcing me to work on my time of leisure, how dare – "

Sighing, Federico lets him go – with his thanks and money and a roll of his eyes to speed the man along. Biagino is good for gossip, but the man is not useful for finding people, alas – he has the observation skills of a gnat, it seems. Perhaps it is time he finds another thief to patron for information.

"Did you get what you wanted, my dear Federico?" Paola asks, joining him as Biagino stomps back upstairs and back to more pleasurable activities.

"I got something, nothing very useful though," Federico says and sighs. "But I suppose it's a start."

"Is there anything my girls can do for you?" Paola suggests. "You are looking for someone – I'm sure more eyes on the lookout will speed things along."

Federico hesitates. "Only if your girls keep their distance and do not pursue," he says. "It might be very dangerous."

"Federico," Paola says, admonishing. "We're _whores_. Trust me, we know to keep ourselves at a safe distance. Now, what it is that you are looking for?"

Federico tells her, but only as much as she and the girls would need to know – what the man looks like and what he had been disguised as, but not why he needed to be found, or who he might be. Paola looks at him perceptively as he lists the short litany of clues and he gets the feeling she figures it out on her own.

"A scarred monk in a black habit," she muses. "Very well." Then she claps her hands, and immediately the girls at loose ends perk up and join them. "Girls, I have a task for you."

* * *

 

Federico looks around for a while – checking the western gates and then taking a somewhat half-hearted look at the nearest convents, with little luck. Though there are monks always going about in the city, none of them stand out to him as special. Oh, to have the Sight now – all he would need was one glance with the Assassin's gift, and he'd know if there was anything to be seen.

Federico closes his eyes, sitting on the ledge of a rooftop and sighs. Though he concentrates just like how the old writings say, trying to _push_ some strength into his eyes, into his vision… nothing changes. According to the old writings almost everyone can learn the gift and that if you have one member in your family with the talent then it's likely that you too can master it… it never comes.

Rubbing his fingers over his eyes, his normal regular human eyes, Federico shakes his head, rueful. Even Ezio can't teach this, he knows – for Ezio it didn't take effort so he had no idea what effort it might take. For him it was as easy as breathing, the lucky brat.

The monk might have the ability, though, to have written a message in manner that can only be read with the gift. Wonder if he too just developed it naturally, or if he had to learn…

Federico looks down, and then frowns. There is a group of monks, five of them, walking down the street below him, their heads bowed – and the one right in the middle of the group is looking up at him. Federico narrows his eyes and leans down to look, but it's too far to see – the monk lowers his gaze, his features hidden under the black hood. Could it be…?

Quick and careless about who might see him, Federico vaults over the edge of the rooftop and onto the balcony below, then over it's railing and down again, to hang from the bottom edge of the balcony before dropping down to the street. There is a gasp nearby – a woman in servant's garb, staring at him in shock. Federico winks at her, and then looks to the monks, continuing their way down the street.

Quick, Federico follows them, awkwardly sliding into a group of people heading the same way and then easing his way through them to get closer.

There's nothing remarkable about any of the monks – they all wear habits of same design, fully black with their hoods up and their heads bent humbly. The monk in the middle doesn't stand out either and he doesn't look taller than the rest – but that might be achieved with posture and bent knees, and the hem of the cassock could easily hide that.

Federico gently shoulders past the people ahead of him, to get ahead of the monks so that he can see their faces. All clean shaven, of course, pale with long hours spend indoors in payer. The middle one… Federico narrows his eyes, looking at the man over his shoulder, trying to see but…

There is no scar, and the hands the man brings up for prayer are gloveless. It's not the man. There is no sense of danger about him either, about any of the monks he's with.

Damn it.

Federico eases out of the crowd and then to take seat on the bench at the side of the street – the monks pass him by in quiet silence, none of them standing out, none of them looking at him. Federico sighs, leaning his head back until it thunks against the wall.

That would have been far too simple, wouldn't it?

* * *

 

Federico spends some more time taking look at the convents and their people and finding very little of use. Chances are the courtesans will have much better luck at finding their mark – there are more of them, and they can ease secrets out of others with skill unmatched. In comparison his solitary search is of very little use, with so few clues to go on from. There are simply too many monks in Florence to go through them all.

Ezio could do it, perhaps, but Ezio is still in the dark. Even the reading of the invisible message had been little more than curiosity for Ezio, brushed easily aside as a trick of alchemy and nothing more, the contents of the list itself inconsequential. And Ezio had been content enough to leave it at that – in their house secrets came and went at such speed, that all the Auditore children had very early on learned when to ask and when to stay silent, Ezio included.

As frustrating as it is, Federico stands by his father's decision to wait where Ezio is concerned. The longer Ezio is allowed to remain blissfully ignorant… the better.

But it is very frustrating and in the end Federico gives up on looking and heads home with hopes that Father might've unearthed something new.

"Is Father home?" he asks upon entering – Mother and Petruccio are in the inner courtyard, reading.

"Well hello to you too, my son," Maria says somewhat admonishing.

"Forgive me, Mother – hello, how has your day been?" Federico says, reaching to kiss her. "And hello to you as well, Petruccio."

"Brother," Petruccio says. "You have a feather stuck in your hair, can I have it?"

"Feather –" Federico says and his mother plucks it out. "Huh, I didn't even notice it."

"You have been on rooftops again," Maria sighs and hands the feather to eager Petruccio. "Honestly, Federico, even though you _can_ climb the rooftops, it does not mean you always _should_. And to answer your question; your father is not in. He has a meeting, it sounded like," Maria says, brushing her hand over Federico's hair, smoothing stray stands back into order before adjusting his clothes. "And your doublet gapes wide open – Federico, you're positively indecent."

"Indeed," Federigo agrees, grinning, and then endures her tutting at him and pulling his doublet lapels closer together, to reveal a little less of his chest. "Has Father been in since morning, then?"

"No, he left shortly after you and has been gone since then," Maria says. "He did say to tell you to head to his office, in case you find something. Have you?"

There's a glint of steel in her eyes – Father must have told her, then. "Yes, and no," Federico says and glances down to Petruccio, who is examining the feather with great interest. "Shouldn't you take that to your box, Brother?"

Petruccio sits up straighter at that and then considers them, looking between them with all the perceptiveness of a thirteen year old. "I think I will," he says then and hops to his feet. "If you find more, Federico, bring them to me, will you?"

"I didn't exactly find this one, it found me," Federico says with a laugh. "But yes, I promise I will. One of these days you will have to tell us why you collect them, Petruccio."

"Mm… later," Petruccio says and hurries off with the feather.

Maria chuckles after him and then looks to Federico. "Yes – and no?" she asks.

"I got a better description of the man from Biagino, but could not find him. And, ah, Paola persuaded me to let her girls help find him," Federico says, scratching at his cheek.

"Federico," Maria says, admonishing.

"I did not tell her why, but her girls are on look out for a scarred monk now – with strict orders to not approach him, if they do find him," Federico says quickly. "Honestly, Mother, they have much better luck of finding him than I do. I searched, but one monk looks much like another when seen from above."

"Then you should look for them on the ground level," Maria says with a sigh before setting her hands to her hips and looking him over. "You still think a little like an errand boy – Federico, my dear, you are an _Assassin_. This man is your target. How do you find him?"

Federico almost groans. He's made some vital oversight, then, and is about to hear of it. "Do you know how many monasteries and churches there are in this city, how many monks?" he asks desperately. "And Biagino could not say what order of monks he came from either, doubt he could tell them apart if he did. Sylvesterine, Domenican, Benedictine…"

"Domenicans wear black cloaks over white cassocks," Maria comments. "It is very striking, so if our mysterious friend donned their habit, I suspect your informant would have noticed."

"Hm, true," Federico muses, frowning. At least that's one order of monks he can scratch out of his mental list, then.

"And Benedictines rarely wear cowls over their heads unless in choir or sermon," Maria continues. "Which would make it difficult to hide among them, if our particular monk wishes to remain constantly hooded."

"You might be right," Federico frowns. Their family has never been the most pious and though they do attend to enough services to pass the muster and all of Auditore's are properly baptised… faith in God has never been a subject of any thorough study in their home. He wouldn't be able to tell one order of monks from another at a glance – they all look much the same to him.

"He might have discarded the disguise," Federico says then. "Or who knows, adopted another monk's habit. He's probably not even hiding among the monks – I hardly think he's actually taken any vows."

"You never know. So as long as it is one of the few clues we have to follow, follow them you must," Maria says. "Now where might you be able to find quite lot of monks and view their faces with ease?"

Federico frowns. "At… a service?" he asks warily

"Or at the doors as they leave the said service," Maria says, amused. "Now –"

She stops as they hear clatter of footsteps coming from the rooftop above – moment later, Ezio hoists himself down the edge of the rooftop, clambering down the side of a pillar before dropping down, out of breath and with blush of excitement on his face.

"Well hello, my Ezio," Maria says, while Ezio straightens his waistcoat. "Dropping by, are you?"

"Mother, I see you are radiant with glowing humour today," Ezio says, going to greet her with a kiss. He glances at Federico, eyes flickering down to his doublet. Ezio snorts. "Brother, you look positively... decent?"

Federico tugs at the front of his doublet, to open the front of it a little. "How dare you," he says, amused. "I see you've rolled about in hay. Was it with or without company?"

"Ah, sadly without. There might have been a…" Ezio coughs. "… cause to hide for a while, and the haystack happened to be a convenient place to do it. Nothing to be worried about," he assures their mother. "They completely lost me."

"And why where these mysterious _they_ chasing you in the first place?" Maria asks flatly. "Especially when you were supposed to stay out of trouble today?"

"Vieri and I had a small disagreement," Ezio admits.

"Vieri de' Pazzi," Federico clarifies, frowning – whose name was on list of suspected Templars.

"Do we know another slimy son of a pig with the same name?" Ezio asks and shrugs. "I handled it."

Federico shares a look with Maria. "Ezio," Maria says and takes her middle son by the arm, winding hers around it. "You know of your father's investigation concerning Francesco de' Pazzi, don't you? The investigation is delicate – it would serve your father if you would… refrain from dealing with Vieri for now."

Ezio glances at Federico over their mother's head and arches a brow. Federico smiles, giving nothing away – but he can see the suspicion in Ezio's eyes. Maybe the invisible message had not fallen on deaf ears there after all.

"I'd be delighted to keep my distance from Vieri," Ezio says, turning to look at Maria. "The less I see of him, the better. I will try and not get involved from now on."

"Thank you, Ezio, I appreciate, and so will your father I suspect," Maria says and then smiles slyly. "But tell me, what were you doing when you got into this latest incident?"

"Nothing! I wasn't doing anything," Ezio says, in tones of someone who definitely did _something_.

Federico laughs and leaves his brother to his fate. "I will grab a bite to eat and head out again," he says. Maybe the courtesans have something by now. And if not then he supposes he can find a church to stalk.

* * *

 

In the end, neither Federico nor the courtesans find much anything about the monk – the man has as if vanished to thin air. Father's investigations did prove fruitful however, and as he pulls Federico aside after the evening meal to tell him.

"I persuaded the Gonfalonieri to accompany me for a small inspection at the bank, feigning a potential perjury by an associate," Giovanni tells him as they head to his office. "During which time I had La Volpe go through his house. We found proof – he has been consorting with Rodrigo Borgia. There were letters exchanged, of which La Volpe managed to decode two."

"So the monk's message was correct?" Federico asks, sinking to sit on the divan. "Uberto Alberti is a Templar?"

"I do not for sure if he is fully established within the Templar Order, but he is certainly an associate – and their plans are suitably vile," Giovanni says, pacing the length of his office. "My investigation on Francesco de' Pazzi – Uberto has been hindering it unbeknownst to us. Letters he supposedly failed to decode, the proof he was supposed to keep safe – I expect he has destroyed them."

"Do you still have enough proof to accuse Francesco?" Federico asks worriedly.

"Yes, but no doubt they've already made moves to counteract my claims. Francesco himself has all but barricaded himself at their palazzo," Giovanni says and shakes his head. "But that is hardly the worst thing. I was correct in my suspicions concerning the Pazzi previously – they are indeed planning a usurp the Medici. Not only that, but they are also planning an assassination. Or rather, a massacre."

Federico's eyes widen. "Of the Medici?"

Giovanni nods and looks at him seriously. "And, I suspect… of us. After all, for them to have any hope get at the Medici, they will need to get us out of the way first."

Federico swallows and Giovanni sighs and looks down, at his own hands. At his wrist, a hidden blade glints, barely visible. "There was a letter in Uberto's possession, detailing plans to get Lorenzo de' Medici out of the city," he says calmly. "A supposed problem at Villa Careggi, requiring his immediate attention. With Lorenzo away and unable to object, I expect Uberto meant to use my investigation against me, and accuse me of treason or some other heinous crime. Murder perhaps."

"Father," Federico whispers in horror.

"As the Gonfaloniere and with a man like Rodrigo Borgia behind him… Uberto could very well have me hung with very little opposition," Giovanni says without inflection. "All he needs is get the evidence I have on Francesco de' Pazzi, and destroy it – and then there'd be no proof of my innocence, and of Francesco's guilt."

Federico runs a shaking hand through his hair. No wonder Uberto Alberti's name had been on top – for this to be brewing right under their noses... "That monk has saved us," he whispers.

"Not yet," Giovanni says darkly and glances at him. "He has clued us to a conspiracy, but it yet exists. Should this plan of theirs fail, another might take its place. We must act before that."

"Yes, of course," Federico says and stands up. "What do we do?"

"Rodrigo Borgia is the Grand Master of the Roman Rite of the Templar Order, our most ancient enemy. He is the one behind this all," Giovanni says and looks at him. "We must find him – and kill him."

Federico takes a breath and nods. "I'm ready, Father."

Giovanni lets out a breath and then nods. "This assassination will be my responsibility, for I am the one who missed these clues and let the situation develop this far," he says and smiles. "But… yes, you are ready. You will assist me in this task, won't you, Federico?"

"Yes, of course. Anything," Federico says and bows his head.

Giovanni lays a hand on his shoulder, gripping tightly for a moment and then releasing him. "Now, what of the monk – have you any news?"

"Nothing – he has all but disappeared," Federico admits, and then tells his father what little he has learned. "The man has chosen a either a good disguise or a better distraction, I don't know which – finding him among all the monks of Florence will be… difficult. If at all possible."

"I would prefer to have a word with the man before we set forward. Thankfully, we still have time," Giovanni says. "Lorenzo de' Medici and his brother are both in the city and do not look to leave any time soon, and from what we could glean from Uberto's documents their coup is not yet ready – they are still accumulating the forces necessary to take on the soldiers loyal to the Medici family," Giovanni says. "It will take them another week perhaps at the rate they're going."

"A _week_?" Federico asks with alarm. That's hardly any time at all!

"We will take it as the blessing it is and make use of it," Giovanni says and looks at him seriously. "I will do what I can about stalling Uberto and the Pazzi while collecting our evidence – in the meanwhile… You must find the monk, Federico."

"I – yes," Federico says determinedly, even though the task has proven damn near impossible. "I will find him, Father."

Giovanni looks like him like he wants to insist, but in the end only nods and reaches to clasp him by the cheek. "Good, that is good," he says. "We must all do our best, now, Federico. Our very lives might depend on it. Now come, I have something for you."

Federico follows, his knees feeling strangely weak, as Father opens the hidden wall within the unlit fireplace to reveal the hidden room there - and in that room a chest, waiting for him. Giovanni clasps Federico by the shoulder and nods him to open the chest. Federico kneels down slowly and then eases the lid open – and lets out breathless little laugh.

Maybe Paola had known something he didn't, at the time.

In the chest there are Assassin's robes – made to his measurements.


	3. Chapter 3

Wearing the robes for the first time is how Federico meets Messer Lorenzo de' Medici – at his father's side, in the dead of night. His father arranged the meeting the day before in secret and they are the only attendants – where usually the Gonfaloniere would be there to meditate it, now there are only the Assassins and Lorenzo himself.

It's a small thing – but the change that powers it is monumental.

"Giovanni," Lorenzo says, clasping the Master Assassin by the shoulder. "Your message had me concerned – what is the cause for all this secrecy?" he looks to Federico curiously

"You Excellency, I'm afraid I have the most terrible news," Giovanni says grimly. "But first, let me introduce you properly to my son – Federico has been in training these past three years and I have deemed it time for him to start aiding me on my missions. Federico, you know Messer Lorenzo, of course."

"Your Excellency," Federico nods, and quickly clasps a hand over his heart and bows his head. "It is a honour, my lord, I hope I will be of service to you as my father has been.

"Young Federico," Lorenzo says and nods regally. "The honour is mine. Your father has done me great many services, the value of which cannot be understated, over these many years. It is a relief to see he will no longer be working alone."

Giovanni nods, offering Federico a faint, proud smile from under his white hood before turning to the Medici. "Now, to my news. I'm afraid I have missed a plot that was brewing under our noses, my lord, and would have continued being blind to it, had a fellow Assassin not clued me into it. Ser Lorenzo, I'm afraid the Gonfalonieri is plotting your demise."

"Uberto Alberti has never been a great friend of mine, nor an admirer of my deeds," Lorenzo says with faint amusement, but there is wariness in his eyes. "But I suppose you mean something more serious than that."

Giovanni nods. "There is a plot to assassinate you, your brother, and all your family's influence within the bounds of Florence – and that of my family also. Please, let me share the proof I have uncovered…"

Federico watches from the side, his head slightly bowed, as his father presents Lorenzo with the evidence – the translated letters, the list of clues found at Uberto Alberti's house and then the note Ezio had written for them, translating the invisible text. It's… not that much, in the end, and Lorenzo seems to share that thought judging by his frown.

"Giovanni, you have always had my highest confidence," Lorenzo says. "If you believe this plot to be true then I trust you. But it is hell of an accusation to made, and all your evidence is hand written by you or your companions. It's not much to go on – let alone accuse."

"No, it is not," Giovanni agrees. "We couldn't remove the originals from Gonfalonieri Alberti's house without arousing suspicion, I'm afraid, so the evidence is somewhat circumspection. But I hope it is damning enough to give you suspicion."

"Your word alone would have been enough for that," Lorenzo says, taking the handwritten note from the table, the one in Ezio's hand. "And I too have noted the movements of the Pazzi, the way their household staffs have increased. They are hiring great many guards, for such an average palazzo."

"Indeed," Giovanni mutters and looks up to the man – whose expression is growing grimmer. "My lord?"

Lorenzo smiles, faint and grim. "Father Antonio Maffei," he says. "He works at my house, he tutors my children."

Federico's eyes widen.

"Yes, your Excellency," Giovanni agrees. "I know."

Lorenzo takes a breath and then puts the paper down. "To let him go now will rouse suspicion, I expect," he mutters. "And warn these conspirators of what we might know."

"It is likely, my lord," Giovanni says quietly.

Federico looks between his father and the lord as they silently consider the issue. Then he looks up to Giovanni. "You are certain of this, Giovanni? These names," he motions to the paper Ezio wrote. "They are plotting our demise?"

Giovanni hesitates just long enough to make Lorenzo's expression harden. "I see," the Medici says and leans back.

"Of the Pazzi I am absolutely certain," Giovanni says darkly. "Francesco de' Pazzi is a murderer and should be treated as such. And I would hardly put it past man like Rodrigo Borgia to join such an effort, the man is hardly known for his humility and kindness. I am certain the plot is real – but I do not have the evidence to accuse all of them of it."

Lorenzo nods slowly, eying him levelly. "Well, not openly," he says and smiles. "What of Gonfalonieri Alberti?" he says and looks away. "How deep do you think his guilt runs?"

Giovanni bows his head. "I know for sure now that he has been hindering my investigations, and that he has destroyed the evidence against Francesco de' Pazzi I gave to him for safekeeping before I make my claims. He has been also quick to soothe my concerns there, telling me the accusation will be enough, that Francesco will go to prison and that will be the end of it. Whether Uberto is capable of murder, I do not know, but he is an ambitious man, and quick to take an opportunity should one strike."

"And he is no great supporter of mine," Lorenzo agrees, closing his eyes. "Should opportunity rise to remove me from power…"

Giovanni nods.

"Greed is an ugly thing," Lorenzo murmurs. "But is it enough to condemn a man, when nothing has yet been done?"

Giovanni says nothing, and Federico bows his head.

They are considering whether Uberto Alberti should be assassinated.

"How much time do you think we have, before this trap is sprung?" Lorenzo asks finally.

"A week, perhaps. You will know once letter arrives prompting you to travel to Villa Careggi post haste," Giovanni says. "After that, it will be matter of days."

Lorenzo nods and closes his eyes. "We must make use of the time given to us, then," he says and looks to Giovanni. "I will give you leave to deal with Uberto Alberti as you see fit, Giovanni. You are closer to the man than I am. Should you find proof, _irrefutable_ proof… deal with him, but make it seem like an accident or an illness, not an assassination. We cannot give them that warning."

"Yes, my lord," Giovanni says and bows his head.

"In the meanwhile, prepare to make your accusation against Francesco as soon as possible - but do not make it yet. Chances are, to do it now will only make these conspirators hasten their actions," Lorenzo says and stands. "Find me everything you can of this plot – find me proof, Giovanni, find me the time and the date, and do it soon. "

* * *

 

It is beyond anything, to wear the hood, the proper robes, the belt, the bracer, all of it out in the open. Federico is still a little breathless with joy of it, being able to carry this most ancient family tradition. But somehow, despite everything his father had taught him, how well he'd been prepared… he hadn't anticipated the weight it came with.

To be an Assassin is to kill people, yes, he'd always known that. But to carry the weight of all of Florence on their shoulders, that he had not expected.

"The robe is a symbol of a task to be completed, a duty to be carried out," Giovanni says as they return home from their meeting with Lorenzo de' Medici. "When we wear it, it means we are on a mission – that we are aiming to send a _message_. You understand this, Federico."

"Yes," Federico agrees, while somewhat disappointedly taking off the said robe. It does nothing to remove the new weight that seems to bear down upon them both, but still… "I would wear it always, if it wasn't so inconspicuous."

"I pray you never will," Giovanni says grimly. "An Assassin who never undresses from his robes is one of a terrible fate – a fate I would wish upon no one, let alone my own son."

Federico considers that and then nods. Yes, of course. No Assassin he knows wears robes all the time – some like Paola have probably never worn them. Giovanni does it more than most because he _does_ have a message to send out, as does the lord he serves – but for most, their work is done better under the cover of normalcy, hiding among the people, rather than cutting through them.

An Assassin who only wears robes… their whole life would be turned into a message, and duty. There must have been assassins who chose that – and assassins of old only ever wore their robes too, but… those had been different times. Harder times. For an Assassin to choose such a life now…

Federico sets his down, running a hand over the lapels before setting his belt over them. It was a pleasure and honour to wear them, but Father is right. It would be a terrible fate, wouldn't it?

Giovanni clasps him by the shoulder and smiles. "They suit you well, my son, but I prefer you in normal doublet, I think. Now, we must get some rest – tomorrow, we have our work cut out for us. And you have an Assassin to find."

"I still have no idea how to find the monk, Father," Federico admits. "There is so little to go on from."

"I know, but we must try," Giovanni says and squeezes his shoulder. "Visit La Volpe and request the help of the thieves, if you must – but keep the cause to yourself. Now – it's late. Time for bed."

Federico nods and follows his father out of the secret room, watching Giovanni close the wall behind the fireplace, hiding their nature behind it. Running a hand down the front of his red doublet, Federico looks down. He looks no different, outwardly, and truly he'd done nothing terribly remarkable that night – only presented himself as an Assassin to Lorenzo de Medici. There hadn't been no kill, not even so much as a scuffle, the night had been calm.

And yet everything _feels_ different.

* * *

 

The morning goes as mornings usually go. Claudia helps mother in the kitchen – they are backing a pie for dessert while Annetta is away, running some errand. Petruccio has a bad day and is confined to bed – Federico visits him to see if he needs anything, to find him sleeping restlessly, his face paler than normal, his breathing rasping.

Looks like he's getting sick, again.

"I have already called for a doctor to take a look, but it's the same thing as usual," Maria says to Giovanni, who similarly goes to take a look. "He begun coughing early in the morning and could not stop. He fell asleep an hour or so ago – wore himself out, the poor lamb."

"Better let him rest, then," Giovanni says, reaching to kiss her. "You will take care of him, my love? I'm afraid I will be busy all day again."

"Yes, of course – is something the matter?" Maria asks, perceptive, looking between him and Federico.

"Work, as per usual," Giovanni says and smiles. "Nothing I cannot handle – Federico will be helping me out today," he adds and looks around the table. "Where is Ezio?"

"Here, I'm – here," Ezio says, his words broken by a yawn. "Morning Father, Mother – Sister, _Brother_ , morning to one and all."

"Morning to you as well, Ezio," Maria answers, looking him over closely and then nodding with satisfaction – looks like Ezio hadn't managed to sneak out the previous night, then. "Sit down and I will get the food – oh, Giovanni?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"A letter arrived to you – it's from Mario. It's by the mantelpiece."

"Oh?" Giovanni says and then quickly goes to get it.

Federico hesitates and then takes seat – Mario is a fellow assassin, of course, and the letter might have information somehow related to that particular work. Father would tell him if it was, though, and to get all alarmed when it might be nothing important at all would only make Ezio and Claudia suspicious.

He can wait.

Maria smiles and then turns to the kitchen. "Right, food – Claudia, come help me."

"Yes, Mother."

Federico looks to the door his father had gone through and then turns away – arching a brow at Ezio who all but collapses to his usual seat, looking utterly wrung out and tired. Is this what a day of abstinence does to Ezio these days? Good grief – maybe Cristina is his source of strength, rather than an outlet to spend it on. "Well, you look lively today."

"I am the soul of manly vigour," Ezio says and yawns. "Where were _you_ last night?"

"What do you mean?"

"You weren't in your bedroom."

"…And what were you doing in my bedroom?"

"Stealing all your coin – of which you had none," Ezio says and offers grin to their father who is just returning to the dining room and is giving him a admonishing look. "I only wanted to borrow a doublet – I wasn't _really_ stealing."

"You better have not," Giovanni says firmly while taking a seat.

Ezio gives him an angelic smile while Federico rolls his eyes. "So what did Uncle Mario have to say?" he asks, unable to help his curiosity.

"Hm? Oh, yes – he wrote me to tell me that there had been a break in at the old Villa," Giovanni says, frowning a little.

"The Villa?" Ezio asks, becoming serious. "Was something taken?"

"Not as far as he noticed, but there were signs of forced entry in the basement," Giovanni says and frowns. "Ruffians looking for valuables. There's not much there to take, honestly – the villa is in a pretty bad state these days and all the valuables are kept at the bank, not at the house. Still…"

Federico frowns. The basement – he's visited it once, the old sanctuary under the Auditore Villa in Monteriggioni, when he'd been seventeen and his father had begun conducting him to the business of the Assassins. He remembers the statues there, though vaguely – statues of _Assassins_. The sanctuary was where the history of the Brotherhood was kept. For someone to have broken in…

Federico looks at his father but Giovanni shakes his head – later then. "So, what is this about stealing?" Giovanni asks, to district Ezio. "Not from your own brother, Ezio, honestly."

"I _didn't_ – his doublet was too small around the chest anyway," Ezio says and gives Federico a look. "Some of us don't want to show chest for all the world to see."

"Ezio," Giovanni sighs and glances at Federico.

"But it's such a nice chest, though," Federico grins at his brother. "I'd be loathe to hide it."

"I suppose when it's all you have to show…" Ezio says and then leans in. "So where were you, Federico? So late past bedtime too, tut tut."

Federico gives him an amused look and reaches for a piece of dry fruit sitting in a bowl in the middle of the dining table. "I was out and about," he says and smiles. "Someone had to be, since you were all confined indoors. Florentine night without an Auditore is not a Florentine night at all, after all."

"Out and about around… whom?" Ezio asks, giving him a look and grins. "That thief of yours?"

"Please no, I don't think the family can suffer the drain of funds," Giovanni says wearily, taking his seat also.

"Poor Federico, with that face he can't find company unless he pays for it," Ezio says mournfully. "It is truly a curse."

"Aww, little Brother, so heartless," Federico says, feigning hurt. "We can't all be born as pretty and blissfully dumb as you. Some of us must endure by wits and smarts alone."

"Go jump out of a window, Federico."

"No defenestration at the breakfast table," Maria says, carrying in a pan of freshly baked food. "Settle down, both of you, or no dessert."

"Yes, Mother," they say in unison, Federico craning his head to see what they'd made for the said dessert. Panforte – excellent, it's his favourite. This day is starting out splendidly, it seems.

"I cooked it myself," Claudia says proudly as she sets it down. "So you had better appreciate it, I will hear no word of complaint."

"I'm sure there will be nothing to complain about, Claudia," Maria says amusedly, while Ezio leans back making a face and Federico mentally rescinds his pleasure about the dish. Claudia's previous attempts at cooking had been… overly spicy.

"Don't think I didn't see that, Ezio," Claudia says. "I've yet to see you contributing in the running of this house so you have no room to be making faces at me, when I'm _cooking_ for all of us."

"No, no, of course not – I'm sure it will be wonderful," Ezio says quickly and then moves to distract with, "So how went things yesterday with Duccio?"

Claudia narrows her eyes dangerously, but deigns to take the bait. "He is _wonderful_ ," she starts and then she's off, serenading her love's virtues while Ezio's face grows a little pained and Giovanni and Maria share amused looks over their heads.

Federico grins and reaches for the food – at least here, things are still the same.

In the end, there is nothing more for Federico to learn about the breaking at the Villa Auditore.

"I will write to Mario to send me more information, but if there was more there, he would have already included it in the letter," Giovanni says, looking over the letter. "There were signs of forced entry through the old mines, as if someone had tried to get into the sanctuary, apparently some of the doors had been triggered – but nothing was taken, and he doesn't think anyone made it into the sanctuary itself. The way is too tricky, from that end."

Federico, who remembers very little of the place, nods slowly. "So, it could have been just a curious robber?"

"Most likely was – a mercenary perhaps, searching for anything valuable. The area around Monteriggioni is full of them, and the countryside is in a rough state, currently," Giovanni admits. "Everyone is low on money and getting a tad desperate. Too much fighting going on. Still, Mario made no mention of the sanctuary being disturbed so it is unlikely they even found it."

"It's… a big coincidence, considering what's going on here," Federico comments.

"That it is," Giovanni agrees, pressing his lips together and then setting the letter aside. "Time to get to work, Federico."

"Yes, Father. I promise you, I will find the monk, somehow," Federico promises.

"Good," Giovanni says, drumming his fingers against the table for a moment and then nodding. "I think I will have your brother run errands for me today. If you run into him, keep an eye on him, see how well he does."

"Of course," Federico says and grins. "It'll be my pleasure to watch my baby brother blunder his way through the city."

"Be kind – you were hardly graceful yourself at the start," Giovanni says, admonishing. "Now off you go. Report to me as soon as you have anything."

"Of course, Father."

* * *

 

So Federico heads out again in search of the monk, planning to visit Paola first, in case her girls might have found something of use, before approaching La Volpe. If the monk is still in Florence, today will be the day Federico will find him and learn what he knows.

Today he too is an Assassin, properly robed and everything, even if he's not wearing the hood now. Today is a different day than yesterday.

"I'm afraid we have nothing," Paola tells him when he arrives, motioning him to join her and some of her girls at table the girls are lounging about – it being too early in the morning for too many customers. "Though there are monks aplenty in this city, none have stuck out as especially unusual, I'm afraid. We looked into the convents as well, to see if there have been any additions to their brothers, but with little use – there is no sign of your scarred monk. Wherever he is staying, I doubt it is at an actual convent."

"I didn't think he would be," Federico admits, sitting down. "Might you have any idea where to look – what ground have you covered so far?"

"I went to the Sylvesterine convent," Mariella says, stretching out her feet to another girl's lap with a sigh. "They have gotten no new brothers in months, they said – and they knew of no one with scar across his lips."

"I asked around among the Benedictines, but nothing there either," the other girl, Emma, says and starts to idly rub Mariella's feet. The rest of the girls have similar reports to give – as far as most of the convents of Florence go, none had gotten any new members in their ranks of late, certainly not as recently as within last few days.

"There was a new group of monks arriving at the city, two days past," Federico says, frowning. "Biagino saw them, the scarred monk arrived with them."

"Hmm," Paola hums, frowning. "Now that is strange. A whole group of monks, that arrived and then did not go to stay at any of the monasteries? How many of them were there?"

"I… don't know," Federico admits and almost groans. Another thing he did not think to ask Biagino, damn it. "Only that there were others." He's been trying to find one monk in sea of thousands – but now it turns out there might be a whole group of them – oh, Mother will never let him hear the end of this.

Paola gives him a look. "Well, now you know they aren't staying anywhere we know of," she says. "A group of monks couldn't have gone unnoticed – nor their absence, if they had been expected."

"So, convents and churches aren't places to look," Federico muses and sighs. "That doesn't narrow it down much. They could still be anywhere in the city, if they are still at the city at all! They could have already left?"

Paola shrugs. "You are searching for an elusive prey, little one. I'm afraid we can't help you more."

"Well, now I have little more to go on, and I thank you for that," Federico says and kisses her hand. "You too ladies – thank you very much for your hard work and effort, I don't know how I can ever repay you."

"Oh, I could think of a few things," Mariella says suggestively and the others laugh.

"Some other time, my dear," Federico says and kisses them too, one after other – some longer than most. "Mm. Now I'm sorrier that I have to run. Best of day to you all, my dear ladies."

"Happy hunting, Federico," Paola says and gets up.

"Come back soon, you hear?" Emma calls back and Federico blows her a kiss before heading off to the southern district and towards Arno river, to find La Volpe and hopefully get more eyes around the city.

* * *

 

He almost misses it, but by now the habit to check the faces of monks has become a near instinct and as Federico makes his way down the street, he automatically flicks his eyes up, to check the lips. No scar, no scar, no scar… _scar_.

It takes a moment for that to register and then Federico stops as if to a wall, just as the group of monks passes him by. They're all in black, though not all of them wear hoods – in fact, the only one who does is the one holding the tail end of the group, and his habit is different. Black cassock with a hood pulled up and then low over the face, a black cape – and hidden under the cape, a thick belt, armour, pouches, weapons, _sword_ – and at his arms bracers.

The man passes him by his head bent low and his posture unassuming, and the scar that cuts through his full lips is clear on his tanned skin, cutting through smattering of the beard growth.

Federico's breath catches, and for a moment he has no idea what to _do_. Then he catches himself, easing into the crowd, and turning to follow. He's found the man. He's found him and with that armament there is no doubt about it now – the man is indeed an Assassin. In fact there is something about his choice of abelt, and armour, something about all of it, that reminds Federico of something…

Federico can barely contain himself – his heart is suddenly pounding hard and heavy in his chest. Should he approach the man, talk to him, or follow him, stalk him, see what he is doing, where he is going? He chooses the latter and sticks close, keeping his eyes on his prize.

The unknown Assassin sticks to the group of monks for a while, before separating from them smoothly. At first Federico thinks it is only to blend into another group of people, heading down the different street but the Assassin passes them by, approaching instead a building – where two guards wearing Pazzi's insignia loiter by a closed door.

Federico is too far to hear what they're saying, what the Assassin bends to ask from them – but the guards both turn to point down the road, apparently giving directions. The Assassin says something more, shifting as if to look and the Pazzi move to point more vigorously – and then _something_ happens.

The black-clad Assassin grabs both guards from behind, pressing something to their faces – pieces of white cloth. There is a hint of struggle and then both guards fall lax against the Assassin – who smoothly eases them both against the wall on each side of the door, sitting them down on the street as if they'd both fallen asleep.

Federico's mouth hangs open as the Assassin easily picks the lock and disappears inside the house the two soldiers were guarding. Did the man just kill them, just like that? Cloth to smother screams as he stuck knifes to their back, or twisted their necks? It had seemed so non-violent though, so smooth…

No, the guard's aren't dead – he can see their chests moving as they breathe, one of them is even drooling. Some sort of sleeping potion, then.

Federico snaps his mouth shut and then moves to follow the Assassin – with his luck the room inside runs through the building and the man can get out the other side and he will _lose_ him again. So, he sneaks past the knocked out guards and inside and –

There he is, their mystery monk, standing by an open little chest with a piece of yellowed paper – no, _parchment_ – in hand. He turns his head towards Federico, rolling the parchment as he watches and easing it into a pouch at his waist. He says nothing though, watching Federico from the shadows of his hood.

The man's eyes gleam a very familiar striking amber. He's using the Sight.

"You, my good sir, are a hard man to find," Federico says clearing his throat, no entirely sure how to do this. "My name is Federico Auditore da Firenze – I'm the son of Giovanni Auditore. I have been looking for you, Ser…?"

The Assassin nods slowly and then closes the chest and moves away from it. "I know," he says. "Come on – we can't stay here."

Federico blinks as the Assassin eases past him, through the open door and then out. Then, blinking, he hurries after the man – who is already sliding into the crowd. "Ser – please, wait –"

The Assassin doesn't wait – moving through the crowd smoothly, without disturbing a single person passing by and leaving Federico to shoulder his way through after the man. By the time he catches up with the man, the black-clad Assassin has taken seat on the side of the street, on a wooden bench set next to the wall. Feeling oddly ruffled, Federico sits beside him.

The Assassin hangs his head, his face hidden in his hood – he says nothing though, waiting. Federico runs a hand through his hair and takes a breath. The man really… carries rather impressive armament. "My father wishes to speak with you," Federico says. "About the message you sent to us."

The Assassin's hood shifts at that, turning – he looks away. "Yeah," he agrees, surprisingly light. "I thought so."

But though the words are light, it's not an agreement. Federico leans back a little, thinking hard. The man speaks the language perfectly, he can't hear any accent – but his features are a little foreign. The clothes are the most confusing thing – it is a monk's cassock, no doubt about it, the man even has a separate cowl, but the cassock has been modified, its hem split. And then there is his gear, his armour and weapons – it's all local, Federico can recognize the design as Florentian in origin.

It's almost as if the man had arrived without anything to Florence and gotten his gear from the local blacksmiths. Strange.

"We are – grateful for it, for the warning you gave, but there wasn't much there to go on," Federico says carefully, mentally cataloguing everything the man has on him. He's fully armoured – pauldrons, chest guard, vambraces, greaves… the man is set to go to war with that gear.  "Do you have any proof, are you… are you working to usurp the conspiracy or –"

"I'm not here for the Pazzi," the Assassin says. "I just wanted to warn your family about the threat. That's all."

Not for the Pazzi – didn't he just take down two of their guards? "Then what are you here for?" Federico asks, trying to get an angle at the man's face.

Across the street, people are noticing the downed Pazzi guards and calling for help. Federico and the black-clad Assassin look on as people try to revive the men, shaking them and then reaching for their water skins – someone is calling for doctor and smelling salts.

"Should we go?" Federico asks.

"They won't notice us," the Assassin says calmly, watching the situation develop before tilting his head and looking at Federico. His eyes are no longer gleaming amber – they're dark brown now, almost black. "I'm not here to get involved with your family, or the Pazzi Conspiracy. I'm not sure I can help you with that – I have my own mission."

"Maybe we can help each other," Federico offers quickly. "At the very least, you could tell us how you came by the information – and anything else you might know about the conspiracy…"

The Assassin doesn't answer immediately, his expression strange as he takes in Federico's face. Then, the corner of his lip curling downwards, he turns away, hiding under his hood again. "And if I have nothing more to offer?" he asks.

"Then at least we will know as much?" Federico asks and looks him over a little desperately. "Isn't it common courtesy for a Brother to announce himself to his fellows when he enters a city?" he asks then. "My father is established here – you should have announced yourself."

The Assassin shakes his head at that and says nothing for along moment. Across the street, the unconscious guards are being carted away, to a doctor no doubt. Then the Assassin bows his head, looking down to his gloved hands – he wears black leather gloves, they look new. The man spreads out his fingers, rubbing the thumb of his left hand against the palm of his right.

"I'll come around your Palazzo tonight," the Assassin then says and stands up smoothly. "What time should be suitable?"

"After midnight," Federico says quickly and stands up as well. "I will tell my father, I'm sure he will be delighted to meet you. Ser – your name, may I have it?"

The Assassin considers him from under the hood. "Later," he says then and turns to go – a moment later, he's disappeared into the crowd. Federico can follow him a while, the black hood standing out – and then even that's gone from view, and the man all but vanishes, once more, to thin air.


	4. Chapter 4

Father takes the news of the black-clad Assassin with both relief and concern, his face troubled as Federico tells him every single thing he can remember, down to the Assassin's choice of gear and the modifications he'd made to his robe.

"And he refused to tell you his name," Giovanni asks, frowning.

"Yes, Father – all he said was _later_ ," Federico admits.

"Time to come up with an alter ego perhaps," Giovanni says and shakes his head. "An Assassin clad all in black. I can see why and it is not as if the dress-codes of old are enforced these days – in our modern time we wear whatever suits our purposes the best but… This troubles me. To not announce himself is bad enough but to refuse a name and aid and to insist on such secrecy…"

"Is the fact that he wears black significant?" Federico asks. Assassin's colour is regularly white, after all – white and a dash of red.

Giovanni says nothing for a while. "Black is regularly reserved for the Mentor of the Order," he admits then. "Though it's another rule that is hardly being enforced. Black is also colour that hides blood better than white – it can cover a certain lack of skill. I can see why the man might wear it in Florence – it is a good disguise, to hide among the monks and priests of the city, but…" He shakes his head. "Something about this sits ill with me."

Federico bows his head a little. Mentor, what _Mentor_? The man didn't seem unskilled to him – he hadn't even needed to spill blood to get what he was after… whatever that something was. "He did offer us his information, though – he gave us a warning," he says. "That's worth something."

"Hmm, yes, and for that we must be grateful to him, he might have prevented a great disaster," Giovanni says. "But for the man to have a _mission_ here, where our family is already established? That, with all this strange secrecy…"

Federico nods – that is a little troubling, now that he thinks about it. Two Assassins in the same city, working for different goals – what if those goals conflicted? "Well he is coming to visit us tonight, so maybe we can ask him?" Federico offers. "He did not seem hostile at least, Father – he could have walked away, pushed me aside, even hurt me, he likely had the skill. He didn't."

Giovanni nods slowly, but he still seems ill at ease. "And you could not tell where he might have been from?" he asks then. "You said his features were foreign – how so? Was his skin fair, dark, did he look… eastern?"

Federico folds his arms. "I can't say, exactly. He just did not look like local," he admits. "It wasn't immediately noticeable or striking, but… I suppose his skin was a little darker? As were his eyes, when he wasn't using the Sight?"

"You saw him use the Sight?"

"Yes – his eyes took on a lighter colour, like Ezio's do when he's using his gift," Federico agrees. "Outside it, his eyes were dark, however, darker than Ezio's.

Giovanni nods slowly. "Could he be an Ottoman?"

"I couldn't say, Father, I'm sorry."

Giovanni nods and is quiet for a moment, thinking about it. "We must be prepared for anything, then," he says. "He is coming at midnight? Good – do you think you can ease Ezio out of the palazzo for the time being?"

"Getting Ezio out of the house is easier done than said," Federico snorts. "I'll tip him on that someone might've made moves on Cristina, and he'll be off like his life depends on it, staking his claim."

Giovanni chuckles, though distractedly. "Do so," he says. "Maria can manage Claudia and Petruccio, and thus you an I can meet our mystery Assassin without hindrance. In the meanwhile, Federico… Go and watch the Pazzi guards for me, see what they are doing – but keep your distance. There is more of them in this city than I would like."

"Yes, Father."

* * *

 

Federico finds Ezio happily getting into trouble, it turns out – fighting with some of Vieri de' Pazzo's friends. Crouching by a rooftop, Federico looks on the haphazard match of fisticuffs and chuckles to himself. Ezio is a mess, when it comes to fisticuffs, swinging his arms about like they're hammers and he needs space to swing them.

"Is that all you got – or do you need more of Vieri's coin in your pocket, to speed your blows along?" Ezio leers at his opponents. "Come on, come at me!"

"You arrogant bastard, I'm going to – "

"Oof," Federico says quietly, grinning, as Ezio knees the other youth on the crotch hard enough to actually lift the other boy off the ground for a moment. The lackey then crumbles down with a reedy little whine, which quiets into a pained huff of breath as Ezio kicks him while he's down.

Such honourable fighter, his brother. Truly, his morals are praiseworthy.

It is only two against one and Ezio makes quick enough work of it, even if he does so messily and with little finesse. Federico shakes his head as Ezio gloats at his fallen opponents and then swings himself down from the roof and directly behind his brother – grabbing Ezio into a headlock before he can react.

"Letting your guard down, Brother," Federico greets him. "Tut tut, you'll only get your ass handed to you like that."

"Federico – what – get off me," Ezio growls, elbowing him and Federico laughs, hanging on. "What are you doing here – I thought you had work to do for Father."

"Funnily enough I thought the same of you," Federico says and then leans good half of his weight on Ezio, making him groan and falter. "You wouldn't be slacking off on duty now, would you, little Brother mine?"

"Ugh – no, I – carried the messages like I was – get off me!" Ezio says and then, with surprising show of fit, suddenly crouches down. Federico almost loses his balance, almost, as Ezio worms out of his hold and then does a little somersault to get away. "Ha, there!" Ezio says triumphantly and stands up while Federico laughs. "Anyway, as I was _saying_ – I carried Father's messages and reported back to him and he let me have the rest of the day off."

"And you decided to spend it getting into trouble?" Federico asks, looking down at the battlefield fallen strewn on the street, groaning in pain.

"Well, trouble happened to swagger my way and take a swing at me," Ezio says and shrugs his shoulders. "I handled it."

"Yes – and kneed it. Low blow, little Brother."

"Eh, it worked," Ezio says without shred of shame. "So what are _you_ doing here – don't _you_ have work to do?"

"Minding you is all the work I can handle," Federico says and looks Ezio over. Looks like he's come out of the fight none too worse for wear, for once. "No, it seems I'm mostly done for the day as well. Come on, little Brother," Federico says and claps Ezio by the shoulder. "Watching you work so hard has left me parched. Let's go get a drink."

Getting couple cups into Ezio is easy enough – it's not like neither of them is particularly shy about their drink. By the time Ezio is suitably softened and slightly distracted by the tavern's lovely maid who is going around serving drinks, Federico lets slip that he's head someone making moves on Cristina, "I heard there were flowers and letters involved," Federico says casually, whirling the bottom of his first cup of wine idly.

"Do you know how many letters and flowers Cristina gets a week?" Ezio asks him, with mixture of delight and bitterness. "One week it was twenty. Twenty love letters! She could make a book of them – and they're all so lurid and gushy and – ugh!"

Federico smiles. "You should try your hand at writing a love letter, some time. You might like it," he comments.

"Love letters are for fools with no charm and charisma – your words," Ezio says and points his wine cup at him. "Actions speak louder than written nonsense."

"Yes, and that is why thousands of people rely on letters instead," Federico agrees. "Still, written word lasts longer. And just look at Claudia, how she hogs her letters."

"From _Duccio_ who wouldn't know charm if it bit him in the dick," Ezio snorts. "What does she see in him?"

"Interest," Federico shrugs, watching him. "And a boy of certain repute, paying attention to her and her alone. It's a lovely thing, I hear, for a girl to be the sole receiver of their beau's attentions and efforts…" he trails away as Ezio's attention strays to the barmaid's rear. "Which perhaps Cristina wishes she could be too, with you."

"She is!" Ezio says, turning back to him. "I have eyes for no other!"

Federico gives him a look.

Ezio shifts where he sits. "Have you heard of her getting… no, of course not. I just saw her, she was pleasant with me, lovely – utterly lovely," he says determinedly.

"A woman might be lovely – and losing interest at the same time," Federico comments casually and sips at his wine – or pretends to. He has no intention of being drunk this night. "And at the rate you've been seeing her – and with the speed of your visits…" he says meaningfully. "Women get bored doing just the one thing, you know."

"You wouldn't say that if you knew what I was doing to her," Ezio grins.

"Yes, to her – how about doing something _for_ her, for once," Federico says flatly and looks away as Ezio frowns. Federico smothers a grin, as that frown grows a little troubled.

"So you think I should write her a letter?" Ezio asks flatly. "What is the point when I can just go see her?"

"Well then how about going to see her – and doing something _nice_ for her," Federico comments and rolls his eyes. "Something that perhaps doesn't involve just your cock for once."

Ezio makes exaggeratedly astonished face. "There are such things?"

"You, my brother, are terrible," Federico says and shakes his head. "And honestly, I don't know what women see in you."

"No, with face like yours, you wouldn't," Ezio agrees and Federico kicks him under the table. Ezio grins and then leans in. "So," he says. "What do you think I should do for her instead?"

* * *

 

With Ezio thusly distracted with Cristina – never a difficult thing to manoeuvre – Federico spends the rest of the evening tracking down members of the Pazzi's personal guard, taking note of the routes they take around the city, the sectors and district they seem to favour. There is definitely some sort of plotting happening there – though there doesn't seem to be much strategy there yet, it is obvious the guards are angling to spread themselves out beyond those streets where Pazzi influence is more prevalent.

They also seem to be following the guards wearing the crest of the Medici, more often than not.

"Marking them down for a future take down, at the very least," Federico reports later to his father, as they head home together. "As well as keeping track of patrol routes and guard sectors. It's obvious they are planning for fighting all across the city, if need be."

"Yes, I thought so also," Giovanni agrees under his breath. "They are most definitely planning for an attack. Do you have an estimate on their numbers?"

"A rough one, Father – but there are likely to be much more, and they are still bringing more people in, it looks like," Federico agrees and takes out the note he'd scribbled, marking down the areas where the guards loiter the most, along with their numbers. "They tend to move in groups of three to seven, but their paths cross often – keeping enough people within shouting distance to start, or end, a riot."

"Hmm," Giovanni says and nods, folding the paper. "This is too many people for the Pazzi to manage alone. Did you see any other crests?"

Federico considers. "No, but some of theirs looked cheaply or quickly made – and some of the gear was far from local."

"Venetian, would you say?"

"Maybe," Federico agrees and looks at Giovanni. "Barbarigos, then?"

Giovanni nods, and then looks ahead, as they approach the front doors of Palazzo Auditore. Maria is there waiting for them, adjusting the vines growing over the walls. "Evening, my love – we're home."

"Giovanni, dear," Maria says and they greet each other quickly. "How was your day, my love?"

"Dreadfully busy and beyond troubling," Giovanni says, glancing at Federico and then at the inner courtyard. "What of Petruccio? What did the doctor say?"

"The same as usual," Maria sighs. "Rest, cold bath, and bloodletting. He is resting quieter now, but his breathing still rasps terribly."

"Ah," Giovanni nods with a frown. "And Claudia? Where is she?"

"She is in her room, reading I believe," Maria says and her eyes sharpen. "Why?" she asks sharply.

"We're to have a visitor this night – an Assassin," Giovanni admits. "Federico found him and managed to ensure that he would come and present himself to us. And I would prefer privacy for the meeting."

"This Assassin is coming _here_?" Maria asks, frowning. "Giovanni…"

"I know, I promised to only take business out of the house, not bring it in, but it couldn't be avoided this time," Giovanni sighs and looks to Federico. "With any luck the meeting will be quiet and amiable, and lead to no further trouble. But in either case… will you please keep Claudia and Petruccio away, for their safety?"

"Ezio's been handled – he will be busy with Cristina all night," Federico adds quickly.

Maria looks between them and then sighs. "Yes, of course I will keep Claudia and Petruccio away," she says, frowning. "But I do not like this, Giovanni."

"I am not terribly enthused about it myself, but it must be handled thus," Giovanni says and leans to press a kiss to her temple. "Thank you, my love. The Assassin will come at midnight – we must prepare for the meeting now."

"Of course," Maria says with a sigh and kisses him back before turning to Federico. "You will attend the meeting, Son?"

Federico glances at his father who pats him on the back. "Yes, he will," Giovanni says and Federico tries not to preen. Judging by his mother's indulgent sigh and Giovanni's quiet chuckle, he fails miserably.

* * *

 

The wait for midnight has never been so gruelling. Federico sits in the courtyard with a book he can't read in the darkness while Giovanni works at his office – both of them on quiet tenterhooks of anticipation. Will the Assassin come over the roofs or will he appear to the gates, now locked for the night, they don't know. The man might very well try the windows. It is uneasy to know so little.

The night seems infinitely dark and quiet, shadows sitting in the corners of the courtyard, dark and stark against the faint light of the moon. Beyond their walls the city still lives, and moves, steps and speech and distant laughter echoing in the streets – somewhere, a dog barks. Everything seems to echo, every slight rasp of a leaf against stone stirred by wind, the flutter of bird wings in the night, the creak of old houses, settling as the day's heat escapes their stones…

Federico breathes in and out and wishes for the millionth time that he'd been blessed with the Sight. It is said that to those with the gift night is almost as bright as day, that they can see in the faintest light of moon as well as in full daylight. Ezio is proof of that – he can move with the grace of a cat in darkness, making nearly no sound at all.

Once more, Federico closes his eyes, concentrates and tries to search for some hitherto unfelt energy, some force within himself that he might push into his vision and _see_ …

And once more it fails to happen.

Federico sighs, and closes the book in his lap, it's text illegible in the shadows, and then looks up. There, with the light of the moon at his back, there sits a shadow on the edge of the rooftop, crouched and looking down. Federico stares for a moment then slowly rises to his feet – above him, the Assassin begins the incremental drop down, silent as he hangs onto the window sills and the shapes of the pillars before soundlessly falling all the way down and landing in the courtyard..

If nothing else would've brought it home, then this did – to make such a climb so gracefully despite the blades he carries and armour he wears, and not at all hindered by the long tails of his robe…

"Evening," Federico says, clearing his throat. "Welcome to Palazzo Auditore."

"… thank you," the black-clad Assassin says, bowing his head.

Federico nods slowly. "Please," he says and motions to the doors. "This way – my father is waiting."

The Assassin is silent as he follows – even on the marble floors, his footstep make no sound. Curious Federico glances down to his feet – the man wears no boots and his footwear have no hardened soles but look to be soft leather throughout. No wonder he makes no sound.

Federico pushes the door to his father's office open, and steps aside to let the Assassin in. "Father," he warns Giovanni, who looks up from his work and then leans back in his chair, as the black-clad Assassin steps in.

The Assassin bows his head. "Giovanni Auditore," he says. "It's an honour."

Federico's father nods his head slowly, his eyes flicking up and down as he takes the unknown Assassin in. "Welcome to Florence," he says and stands. "And to Palazzo Auditore, though I can't deny that this is unexpected. You may know me but I do not know you – I would have your name, Brother."

The Assassin nods slowly – and then smiles. "While in Florence I have been going by the name of Brother Aquila – but my name is Desmond," he says. "Desmond Miles."

"Ser… Miles," Giovanni says slowly, frowning.

"Desmond is fine, please," the Assassin says, grimacing slightly.

Giovanni frowns. "Ser Desmond. You are… English?" he asks with surprise and concern, and Federico looks at the man intently. Even though it's hard to say with the hood… the man doesn't look anywhere near pale enough to come from England of all places.

The Assassin shakes his head slowly. "No," he says. "I am not – I don't come from the British Branch."

"The... British Branch?" Giovanni repeats confusedly.

"Ah – the, English Branch, I guess," Desmond says and shakes his head again, more ruefully. "I'm sorry – I am not affiliated with any Branch of the Brotherhood, currently. And I don't originate from England, either."

Giovanni shakes his head, looking confused more than anything. "Where do you originate from, then?"

Desmond shakes his head. "Nowhere," he says. "I don't have a place or origin – or state I am settled in. I am in no one's service."

For a while Giovanni says nothing while Federico eyes the unknown Assassin with some confusion. As far as he knows, most all Assassins have their states, their cities – their _territories_. Some move around as their work demands them, but like Giovanni, they tend to settle in a select place and serve to keep peace there as well as they can. Like Paola, like La Volpe, uncle Mario in Monteriggioni… they have their places and they stick to them.

So it has always been, or at least that's how Federico has understood it. He has no idea what the man is talking about, speaking of a _Branches of the Brotherhood_. What Branches?

"Ser Desmond, what are you here to do?" Giovanni asks finally. "You told my son you have a mission here - you must understand it's troubling news for one such as myself. This is my territory and you did not present yourself to me as per tradition."

"… No, I'm sorry about that. I didn't realise I was supposed to," Desmond admits and then reaches for one of the pouches at his waist. Federico can see his father tense slightly, but Desmond only takes out a rolled up piece of parchment. "I am hunting down these."

He hands the parchment over and Giovanni accepts it readily, rolling it open immediately. "This is –" he says and stops, looking up with astonishment.

"A piece of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad's Codex," Desmond says with a nod. "I am here to get the back from the Templars."

Federico frowns. He knows that name – yes, from Monteriggioni. The middle statue, the founder – or re-founder, was it? – of the Brotherhood from back in the 12th, 13th century, or something. He wore a robe too, only one of the statues who did – robe from back when it was mandatory for Assassins. Robe… a lot like the one Desmond is wearing, actually.

Giovanni is staring at Desmond with a strange expression now – maybe he sees it too. Then, shaking his head, Father turns back to the page. "I see," Giovanni says, considering the page. "We have uncovered a handful of these pages ourselves over the years, though we haven't been able to decode them," he says and frowns. "I didn't know they might have ended up in Templar hands."

"They have most of them now," Desmond says. "Almost enough to put together the map."

"The – map?" Giovanni asks, confused.

"Yes – the map Altaïr saw of the world, and where a number of the Pieces of Eden are hidden," Desmond says and looks at him seriously. "You… do know about them, right? The Relics – like the Apple of Altaïr?"

Giovanni looks up while Federico looks between them, completely confused now. "I – have heard the stories of course, but…" Giovanni trails away. "You mean to say the stories are _true_? The Relic of Altaïr, it's – it's real?"

Desmond says nothing for a moment, looking at Giovanni strangely and then glancing at Federico and then back at Giovanni. He seems surprised. "Well – yes. Templars already know the location of one other Piece – Rodrigo Borgia is working his way to it," he says slowly. "The Papal Staff is one."

Giovanni falls to sit back down behind his desk, his expression confused. "I – I did not expect that," he says and looks at the page, blinking. "Oh, good Lord," he murmurs and covers his lips with his hand, staring at the page of parchment.

"Father?" Federico asks, confused and alarmed – it's more than little alarming to hear him invoking _God_ in their house, in his own office even. His father doesn't answer and Federico turns to Desmond for some clue as to what the hell is going on – but Desmond says nothing, watching Giovanni strangely.

"You must understand, this is hard to believe," Giovanni admits finally. "The relics haven't been heard of in hundreds of years – we all believed them to be mere stories."

Desmond shakes his head, still watching him oddly.

"Do you know what the Templars are planning then?" Giovanni asks confusedly. "Is what is happening in Florence related?"

"Probably, and their plan is the usual. Order by force," Desmond says simply and shakes his head. "There is a Temple beneath the Vatican, build by Those Who Came Before – the story goes that you can open it with the Papal Staff and with an Apple of Eden, and gain… something from it. I'm guessing they're hoping power."

Giovanni swallows. "Is the story true?" he asks slowly.

"Doesn't matter – they believe it, and they're working towards it," Desmond says and holds out his hand. Giovanni hesitates and then hands the page back.

"How does the plot here feature to it?" Giovanni asks worriedly. "Is it even related?"

"From what I can tell the Medici are threat to papal power," Desmond answers, looking at the page. "Or whatever plans Rodrigo has, anyway. The Pazzi are more likely to support Rodrigo, especially if he helps them get the city."

"I see," Giovanni murmurs, frowning and leaning his elbows to his desk, his hands crossed. "He was behind the assassination of Galeazzo Sforza as well? They've already consolidated their power in Milan, they have ties in Venice with the Barbarigo, and now here…"

Desmond doesn't answer, putting the Codex page away quietly.

"He's consolidating power all over Italia," Giovanni murmurs and shakes his head, staring at his hands. "All the while aiming for the Holy See…"

Federico swallows and tries to wrap his head around the plot. Just the Pazzi conspiracy was bad enough, but this, whatever this is… This goes a little beyond his understanding. And what are these pieces they are talking about, the Pieces of Eden? Actual _Eden_?

Desmond clears his throat. "I know the locations of some of the Codex pages here and am aiming to get them – I don't meant to get in your way, or encroach on your territory," he says. "We're only after the pages."

"We? There are more of you?" Giovanni asks.

Desmond tilts his head in agreement. "We're going to get the pages and then we'll leave," he assures. "Hopefully without making any trouble."

Giovanni stares at him and then leans back. "You – will not assist us here, even though you went out your way to warn us?" he asks. "The Pazzi conspiracy threatens the stability of the region. Will you not lend us your assistance in stopping them?"

Desmond tilts his head away, checking the buckle of the pouch where he put the page. He says nothing though Federico can tell by the press of the man's lips that he's troubled.

"You warned us of the plot, you can't say you're not connected," Federico says tentatively. "Why warn us at all if you don't care?"

Desmond glances at his way, his lips thinning further, the scar across them shining whiter. "It is not… my place," he says awkwardly. "My mission is just to get the Codex pages."

"You said you're not affiliated – who gave you this mission, then?" Federico asks and glancing at his father who is frowning now. Federico looks back to Desmond. "The Pazzi are Templars, working under Templar Grandmaster's rule, according to you – isn't it our job as Assassins to stop Templar plots?"

Desmond bows his head at that. "I am not sure I can help you," he says awkwardly and looks to Giovanni. "I am not here to get involved with local politics."

Giovanni drums his fingers against his desk and nods slowly. "Yes – it's not only politics. And the Templar have the Codex pages you are seeking, so at least there our goals the same. We also have some of the pages of the codex. If you help us…" he trails off meaningfully.

Desmond hesitates at that, eying Giovanni from under his hood, conflicted. Then he looks away, thinking, his gloved hands squeezing to fists. Federico shares a look with his father as they wait for the man to make his decision. Giovanni's expression is grim and determined – but also very troubled. The atmosphere around them is thick with tension.

"I will have to talk about this with my companions," Desmond says finally. "It's not a decision I can make on my own."

"Thank you; that's all I ask," Giovanni says and relaxes a little. "Before you make that decision, however… do you have any proof about the Pazzi conspiracy, and Rodrigo Borgia's involvement in it? Anything we can use against them would be welcome."

"Not with me, no, and I am not sure if what we have is much use for you," Desmond admits apologetically. "We've only concentrated on retrieving the Codex pages. But I will look through what we have."

"Thank you," Giovanni says with a nod and a sigh.

"Disappointed?" the black-clad Assassin asks.

"I was hoping for something to use right now," Giovanni admits and shakes his head. "We're on a deadline, the Pazzi are moving more forces in to the city… the sooner we have something official to strike back at them with, the better."

Desmond considers him and then clears his throat. "I'm sorry I can't help you there. But once you do… get your family out of Florence beforehand."

Giovanni looks up sharply while Federico does the same, shiver running up his spine

"You're a family of Assassins," the man in black robes says quietly and looks away. "Rodrigo will have all your sons hung along with you if he can. If not for any other reason, then to send a message."

Federico nearly chokes at that, his eyes widening. No, surely - no. Ezio and Petruccio too? They don't even know, and Petruccio is sickly by nature, he would probably _never_ know. They'd be hung just for the crime of being related to Assassins?

"I… thank you for the warning," Giovanni says, his voice faint. "I'll keep that in mind."

"You do that," Desmond says grimly and bows his head. "If there's nothing else, I will return to my companions. I should have answer for you tomorrow about whether we will get involved – but I can't promise anything. I'm sorry."

"Though I hope to have your aid, it is enough to know that you will consider it, Ser Desmond," Giovanni says and stands. "Thank you. I hope we will meet again."

Desmond nods his head and then, with a odd glance towards Federico, he turns on his heel and leaves. Federico follows him to the hall and silently watches the Assassin's retreating back until Desmond is out of the door, and the door closes behind him.

"Father," Federico says then, looking back in to his father's study. "What does he mean, Branches of the Brotherhood? And what are these… Pieces of Eden he talked about? And the Codex; what is it?"

Giovanni sighs and sits back down. "Ser Desmond seems to be an Assassin of an older Branch of the Brotherhood. Close the door, Son," he says quietly and looks away. Federico frowns and closes the door, stepping away from it and closer to his father's desk.

"What does it mean, a Branch?" Federico asks and sits down by the divan.

Giovanni shakes his head. "There was time when the Brotherhood used to be more united, divided into Branches that covered certain areas, all serving under one leadership. All of Italia was managed by a Branch of the Brotherhood, known as the Italian Branch, and other areas had similar divisions. The Spanish Branch, I think, still considers itself thus. Perhaps the English do as well… but the time of the united Brotherhood in Italia is long past."

"I don't understand," Federico says. "The Brotherhood is…" he trails off, not sure how to put it. The Brotherhood is just _the_ _Brotherhood_.

Giovanni let's out a huff of breath, far too mirthless to be a laugh. It sounds almost bitter. "Once, we were more than this, Federico," he says a little wistfully and looks away, to the door where Ser Desmond had gone. "Once upon a time our purpose clear, our goals united."

Federico stares at him silently, confused and a little alarmed by his father's tone of voice – strong and regretful.

"Once," Giovanni sighs and looks away, "We had a Mentor, and the Brotherhood of Assassins was _mighty_."


	5. Chapter 5

When Federico was first conducted into the Brotherhood of Assassins, he'd been seventeen and too excited to really _listen_ to what was being told to him. He paid attention, trying to learn everything all at once, all the stories, the wisdoms, the anecdotes, everything and anything pertaining to the Assassins. But maybe he'd been too excited to really memorise it all – and as it is, he'd been bit more excited about the physical lessons than the mental ones.

He'd been given the history lessons in Monteriggioni, in the sanctuary under Auditore villa. The statues of the Assassins who at one point or another had saved the Brotherhood, or in some key way changed it – all their great stories and deeds. Mario had been the one to teach him, Giovanni being busy with his younger children, and Federico _swore_ he listened.

But maybe, maybe he missed something.

The Brotherhood had always seemed such a great thing. The creed, the tenets, the skills, the tradition – it seemed like… like something _beyond_ normal constraints of consequences. Nothing is true, everything is permitted – like they were both above and below society at the same time. And on no one's judgement other than their own, they did their best safeguard the peace and freedom of mankind. What a thing to become part of!

But that isn't how the Brotherhood really is, these days.

Giovanni Auditore works for Lorenzo de' Medici – Paola and La Volpe work for him. Mario Auditore works as more of a mercenary than anything else, fighting from Monteriggioni without more cause than the fact that fighting is a thing they do in Monteriggioni – it's more a den of mercenaries than anything else these days. In other cities other Assassins work for whatever goals they might have. Federico remembers them being mentioned – the thieves and courtesans of Venice are both being lead by people who claim the titles of Assassins as well, but whatever their goals in that work are…

They know of each other, and within cities they might work together – but a common goal isn't something Assassins uphold these days, not beyond their joined Creed and shared tenets. It's called a Brotherhood, but there'd little unity there.

It's not something Federico even knew was missing – he'd never thought to look for it. To him Assassins have always been like this – sometimes he even wondered why other Assassins didn't serve their own Masters like his father did. But Giovanni Auditore is not the rule – he is an exception. An exception which Federico is starting to think might not be that well approved among the other Assassin.

They visit Monteriggioni and the Villa there rarely these days – last time was well over a year ago, and it had not been a terribly happy one in Federico's memory. Maybe there had been a reason. Maybe there'd even been a fight between two Assassins of varying ideologies.

He's not sure what to think.

"So what was the Brotherhood like then, before… back when there was a Mentor?" Federico asks, casting a glance at his father. "And why didn't the Brotherhood just choose another?"

"We did – he was not equipped for the task," Giovanni sighs. "Back then, back before… before the Mentor died, things were a little simpler. We had a common enemy then, a common threat, it was easy to rally against – but without our Mentor we would have been little more than crowd of ruffians. He kept us in order, he gave us orders and missions and kept the threads of the Brotherhood aligned. We accomplished more with less effort, because of the efficiency he ran the Brotherhood with – and he kept us motivated. It was a pleasure to work under him."

"You were alive when the Brotherhood had a Mentor?"

"Oh yes – it was your great grandfather, Renato Auditore," Giovanni says. "I was still a novice back then myself, but I too had missions and afterwards, once he was gone, I could tell the difference it made, to have a skilled Mentor at the helm of the Brotherhood."

After Renato Auditore died there was no one skilled enough to pick up the slack. The Brotherhood fell apart, with the Assassins all having different opinions about what they wanted to do and how those goals should be accomplished. There was little uniting them, and so they drifted apart. Monteriggioni, once serving as headquarters for the Brotherhood, fell into disuse bit by bit over the years. The Assassins withered.

"There used to be more of us," Giovanni tells Federico. "New recruits joined us monthly, they were trained at Monteriggioni – I learned with five other students myself, we often worked as teams. At our peak in my youth, there were dozens of us."

"What happened to them?" Federico asks quietly. There's only handful of Assassins now – what happened to the _dozens_?

"They left, or died, or just disappeared," Giovanni says quietly. "Another thing about our Mentor was that he was excellent at gauging who was suited to what mission, so it was rare that an Assassin would be sent to one beyond their capability to complete it. After Grandfather died… it was harder. Our new chosen mentor tried, but he didn't have that skill. Assassins died more in the line of duty. In few short years, our numbers diminished, and eventually the Brotherhood scattered. We haven't enjoyed such numbers since."

Federico tries to imagine it, and it seems a bit like fantasy – like stories of Rome and Greece and Egypt in their glory days. Impossibly magnificent and glorious – with only ruins of it to remember it all by. What a cold feeling. "And this… happened to all the Branches?" he asks. "It wasn't just us, here – it was everyone?"

Giovanni sighs. "Some fared better than others, after Renato died. The Spanish Brotherhood was the luckiest perhaps; they chose a regional leader and named the man their mentor. He is not the Mentor of the Brotherhood as we once knew it, but knew his business well enough to manage. It kept their Branch united… but even they've withered since, their numbers dwindling." He shakes his head. "It's the same everywhere."

Federico turns to look at his father, taking in his wistful, bitter expression. He wants to ask, but… the answer is rather obvious on his father's face. Of course they would have looked for another suitable Mentor. Of course they would have one, if they'd found one.

Giovanni glances at him and then smiles. "It takes something very special to be the Mentor of the Brotherhood," he says. "It's said there is only one in every generation… if even so often. Perhaps in your lifetime, you'll see the rise of one."

 

* * *

 

Federico sleeps very little that night, haunted by the dreams of rise and downfall of a Brotherhood he's starting to realise he doesn't know as well as he thought he did. And he's got the nagging feeling he still doesn't know everything, not by a long shot – there were words Ser Desmond had used, ways he'd said some things, that plague him. The Pieces of Eden; his father had offered no explanation to that concept, despite how pale it had made him.

There is still the Pazzi conspiracy and now a Templar Conspiracy behind that, and whole world of secrets behind that. It's so much in so little time, he doesn't think he's on top of even half of it, never mind all of it!

No, Federico doesn't get much sleep at all. He wakes tired and with a headache, and stumbles through his morning ablutions before heading to the dining hall in hope of breakfast.

There, Father is telling Mother that he is sending her, Claudia, Petruccio and Ezio away from Florence.

"Why?" Maria demands, clutching onto her husband's arms. "Giovanni, what do you know?"

"I have been warned that the threat to myself might extend to my family as well," Giovanni says quietly, glancing at Federico and then motioning him to come closer. "And I daren't risk it. I want you and our children safe, at Monteriggioni with my brother – Federico will stay here with me, and help me solve the situation."

"Giovanni," Maria whispers, staring up at him helplessly and then pressing her lips tight together. "Won't it cause suspicion?"

"We'll explain it by Petruccio falling sick," Giovanni says, stroking a palm over her shoulder. "It is true enough, and the doctors do recommend country air. You must of course go with him, and Claudia cannot be left without proper female chaperone here, where she might get into any sort of mischief – and Ezio will come with you, to keep you safe. It is perfectly reasonable."

"Nothing about this is reasonable," Maria says, dropping her hands and then wringing them nervously. "We should stay here and help you with whatever this is – Giovanni…"

"You will help me best by making sure you're safe," Giovanni says. "I will work easier knowing no harm will come to you because of it."

Maria looks at him wretchedly and then turns to Federico. She looks like she wishes to argue, maybe even tell that Federico should go with them, but in the end she just holds out her arms, and draws Federico into them.

"If anything happens to either of you, I will brave the gates of heaven and hell myself to get you both back," she whispers and draws back. "Neither Claudia nor Ezio will like this," she warns them then. "There will be an unholy ruckus here, when they find out."

"Even so, it must be done," Giovanni says and presses a kiss to her brow. "Thank you, my love. Thank you."

It is an unholy ruckus, it's beyond it. Federico sits back and tries to feel some amusement over it – over Claudia's near caterwauling about, "But I have plans with Duccio!" and Ezio's lament of, "But Cristina and I were going to meet tonight, we had something special planned!"

Maria shoulders their ire with grace that makes Federico's heart hurt a little – Giovanni has already hurried off to the bank by then, and is thus free of the consequences of having two very angry middle children shouting at him. Maria Auditore is made of steel though, and endures little backtalk, "There will be no arguments about this! Petruccio is getting worse and we will take him to the Villa, and you two will aid me – and that is the end of this discussion."

And it's enough to end it, though Claudia is near in tears by the end of the breakfast and Ezio is chewing on his share with enough vigour to give him toothache. "Why does Federico get to stay?" Ezio then demands.

"Because he is going to help your father," Maria says simply.

"I could help Father too – "

"I am better at numbers than both Federico and Ezio combined!" Claudia says quickly. "I can work a ledger just as well as they can! Better even?"

"But then who will help _me_ at Monteriggioni?" Maria asks simply and they both slump in their seats. Their mother sighs. "We will leave this afternoon – I suggest you go visit your lovers to tell them so. Be back before noon."

It's like someone had thrown a smoke bomb – there is a rattle of chair legs on stone, and then both Claudia and Ezio are just gone.

Maria sighs and Federico sets his spoon down. "I should head off too," Federico says. "To help Father." And to see if Ser Desmond might've come around yet with his answer.

"I do not like this any more than Ezio and Claudia do," Maria say quietly. "You will take care, my Son." It's not a question.

"Yes, I will," Federico promises anyway, even though he's not sure it's a promise he can actually keep.

 

* * *

 

Ser Desmond is far easier to find this time, it turns out. The man is sitting on a bench across from the Auditore villa when Federico steps out through the front gates, looking no different from the many other monks walking about – except, perhaps, for the glint of a belt buckle and gleam of a sword handle at his side, half hidden in the shadows of his cape.

Well, Federico thinks. That… simplifies things.

Then he takes a breath and walks over to the man, easing as calmly as he can to sit beside him. "Ser Desmond," he greets the man.

"It's Brother Aquila, please," the Assassin says, bowing his head a little to hide his face. "I told you my name for the sake of honesty, but it's not safe to go by. As far as anyone knows, I'm just a monk here."

"Apologies – Brother Aquila, of course," Federico says and smothers a grimace. The man had said as much the last night – but after everything, he'd rather forgotten. "I suppose you have an answer for my father?"

Desmond glances at him from under his hood and then looks across the small plateau, to the entrance to the Auditore Villa. "We don't have any proof for you to use officially," he says and shifts where he sits, taking something from a belt pouch – a folded letter. "Just what we know – it's up to you whether you want to trust it. Here."

Federico accepts the note – it hasn't been sealed. With a slight frown, Federico eases the page open slightly, just enough to check – it's once more empty. Another invisible message, only legible to those with the gift. "Ser – Brother Aquila, my father can't read this," Federico admits quietly – and with Ezio soon leaving the city with their mother…

The robed Assassin lifts his head sharply at that. "He can't? Can you – no, you can't either, can you?" he says and then straightens a bit, leaning his palms on his knees. "I didn't know that. You don't have the… huh."

Federico frowns a little, handing the paper back over. "It's rare," he says noncommittally.

"It's learnable," Ser Desmond says, watching him.

"If it is, then perhaps some people are unteachable," Federico says and leans back with a sigh. "Sorry to make this even more complicated for you, Brother Aquila, but perhaps… normal writing the next time?"

The black-clad Assassin nods slowly, watching him as he puts the paper away again. "I guess I will have to go and find something to write with," he mutters and looks ahead. Then he pauses and looks at Federico again. "You really don't have the Eagle Vision?"

"The what?" Federico asks, letting out a surprised little laugh.

"That's what they call it – called it, originally." Desmond says, watching him. "Because it works the best at a bird's eye view, from high up."

"It does?"

"The higher you are, the better," the Assassin agrees, eyes narrowing. "Altaïr was known for climbing high towers and hovering over cliffs, just staring at the world, using the ability – they said he looked like a stalking bird of prey. So… Eagle Vision."

Federico snorts at that. "Imaginative," he answers and then shakes his head. "No, I don't have it, I've never had it. I've tried, there are… exercises you can do which are supposed to make it possible, but they haven't worked for me. Or my father, for that matter."

"Exercises?"

"Concentrating your eyes, that sort of thing," Federico says and shakes his head ruefully. "The message, Brother Aquila?"

"Right – I'll be right back," the black-clad Assassin says and then stands up. Federico blinks after him and then folds his arms as Desmond stalks forward – and vanishes into the crowd. Sighing, Federico leans back to wait, watching the crowd – trying to tell the Assassin apart from it, but he can't. The man can really blend into his surroundings beautifully.

In light of day, Desmond is younger than Federico had first thought. His features are smooth, not yet worn by age – there are no noticeable wrinkles under or around his eyes, aside from the scar his skin is smooth. He can't be much older than Federico, and certainly nowhere near his father's age. And yet… the man moves like a Master Assassin.

In olden times, they started training much earlier didn't they? Sometimes right from birth.

Ten minutes later Desmond is back – with a fresh bottle of ink and a brand new quill. As Federico watches the Assassin retakes his seat – and then he takes out a leather bound book with golden cross on its spine, and opens it in his lap.

It's not a Bible, though, or even book of psalms or hymns – there is no writing on the pages. Or… no writing Federico can _see_ anyway.  

"Can your father read Arabic?" Desmond asks, leafing through the pages for a bit before leaving the book open and then taking out the empty letter from before and spreading it over the right side page, easing the folds out of the paper.

"I – am not sure?" Federico admits. "I think he can speak a little of it, but…"

The Assassin nods and considers the letter for a moment. Then, shaking his head, he takes the ink and the quill and starts writing on top of the invisible writing. It is in simple Italian – not Latin. _The goal of the conspiracy is to kill both Lorenzo and Giuliano simultaneously…_

Federico looks around while the older Assassin just spells out the whole conspiracy in black and white. There are people going about, some easily close enough to see what Desmond is doing, but none close enough to read the words. Still, it's one hell of a open place to be writing such things – yet the black-clad Assassin does it without care, translating his own invisible letter into legible form right there and then, out in the open.

It's a long litany of text and takes a nerve wrecking amount of time to write.

"Aren't you worried that someone will see?" Federico asks finally, his leg bouncing nervously.

Desmond glances at him and then smiles a little. "No one does secretive things out in the open," he says and leans back and away from the letter. "The calmer and more casual you act, the less likely people are to care. There," he says and hands the letter over. "As far as anyone knows, I've written you a psalm."

Federico glances at the letter and shakes his head. "I'm… not sure that would work for me," he admits.

"Key is to look like you're supposed to be doing whatever you're doing," Desmond says and puts the stopper back into the ink bottle, hiding it and the quill in his pouches. Then, he closes the leather bound book, resting a gloved hand on top of it. "No one questions a workman – or in my case, a _monk_ – who looks like he's only doing his duty."

Federico blinks and looks up as the Assassin stands up, putting the book away. Desmond folds holds his hands together and bows his head – much like a monk.

"Also, the Eagle Vision isn't really a physical ability – you can't train your eyes to do it, not really," he says. "Genetics helps, but it's still more mental than visual ability."

Federico frowns a little – _genetics_? – and then perks up with realisation. "You know how to teach it?" he asks sharply. "You know how someone can learn it?"

Desmond shakes his head. "I haven't exactly ever taught anyone to do it before, but I can give you pointers," he offers with a faint, crooked smile. "If you want."

"I do, I really do," Federico says quickly and stands up. "Please."

The Assassin looks at him and then nods slowly. "You start by closing your eyes," he says. "And trying to _sense_ what you can't see."

Federico frowns and then closes his eyes automatically – even while thinking, isn't that what he'd been trying to do before, closing his eyes, concentrating? Close your eyes and try and force a feeling into your eyes, isn't that how the instructions go…

There's a sudden feeling of absence, and Federico blinks his eyes sharply open, confused. Was that – no.

Desmond is gone – once more vanished as if to thin air.

Federico stares at where the man stood and then lets out a rueful laugh.

Well he just got played, didn't he?

 

* * *

 

Federico takes the letter to his father – who reads through it once and then once more before turning to write a letter of his own hastily. "Take this to Messer Lorenzo, immediately," he says pressing the two letters together and sealing them with wax. "And tell him I will be available to meet him at any time if he asks."

"Yes, Father," Federico answers, frowning – he hadn't read the letter himself, only the first few lines about the conspirators aiming to kill the Medici brothers simultaneously, but… apparently what Desmond had written was very serious after all, despite the man's casual method of delivering the message. "What of Ser Desmond?" he asks then. "Did he – offer his assistance?"

"Not as such, not in this letter at least, but the warning itself is thorough enough – get it to Lorenzo post haste, please."

Federico considers telling his Father what happened – what Desmond had told him, offered him, but… the tension on his father's face and the urgency of his speech belays him. "Yes, Father," he says instead, bowing his head. "Should I come back here once I'm done?"

"Yes, unless his Excellency has some other task for you to do," Giovanni says. "Go now – be quick."

So Federico goes, heading out of the bank and then over the roofs and towards the Medici house. Thankfully it's not far from the bank – not so thankfully, there are people hanging about the back entrance, people who don't need to be wearing crests for him to tell whom they work for. Pazzi.

Federico crouches over the rooftop, watching them and then gauging the distance between the back door. The front door is obviously being watched too, it has been for weeks now and Federico never uses that for delivering his Father's messages when they have anything to do with Assassin Business, but…

There – the Medici family steward, heading towards the back entrance. That should do.

Quickly Federico hoists himself down from the rooftop and drops, as quiet as he can, behind an alcove in the alleyway.

"Good day to you, Federico," the steward says, surprised, when he spots Federico. "What can I do for you?"

"I have a message for Messer Lorenzo, is he in?"

"Yes, I believe he should be in – is it sensitive?" the steward asks cautiously.

"I'm afraid so," Federico says apologetically.

"I see. In that case, come right this way, young man."

Federico is led inside and then left to wait in the hall while the steward goes to inform his master. Though family friends and all that, Auditore children aren't quite high enough on the social ladder to be let right into the Medici Palazzo, Assassins or not. Federico doesn't mind – the Medici palazzo has the tendency of making him feel both underdressed and overdressed all at once.

It all felt so much easier, in the Assassin robes. More official, perhaps.

"Young Federico," Lorenzo de' Medici says, coming forth in flurry of rich fabrics and poise. "You have a message from Giovanni."

"Yes – my father's message is the outer one," Federico says and hands the letter over. "I suggest you read it immediately, your Excellency – it seemed time sensitive."

Lorenzo considers him and then motions to the steward – who quickly fetches the man a candelabra to read by. Lorenzo moves smoothly away from the windows and then reads the letter, first the one from Giovanni – and then the one from Desmond.

His face goes grimmer and grimmer the longer he reads, his eyes narrowing. "Young Federico, when did this arrive?" he asks then, waving Desmond's letter – carefully folded to hide it's contents from the steward – in air.

"Less than two hours ago, my lord," Federico says. "I watched it being written myself."

"I see," Lorenzo says, his expression thoughtful and then nods. "Please return to your father and tell him I would like to meet him at earliest convenience, the sooner the better."

"Yes, my lord. I'll go at once."

 

* * *

 

While Giovanni and ser Lorenzo discuss and plot the course of action following whatever Desmond had told them in his letter, Federico goes to watch the rest of their family at his Father's behest. He's worried – probably not without cause – that something might happen that might keep them in the city longer than he'd like.

"If what Ser Desmond told us is true… there might be trouble," Giovanni says. "Just watch for them and make sure… that they get out of the city alright."

Judging by Claudia's ongoing temper tantrum, they are not going to get out of city alright. Federico watches them from the rooftop a while – there's a carriage waiting for them in front of the villa and Mother is doing her best to pack with Annette. Claudia though is more throwing things than packing them.

"I don't see why I have to go – I am almost an adult now, Mother, and the villa has servants, doesn't it? And why don't you just take Annette, she knows how to help you much better – "

"If Annette knows how to help me better than you, my own _daughter_ , then I must say, that's not a point in your favour as far as trusting you to manage yourself goes," Maria says. "Claudia, I am not going to change your mind. You are coming with me, and that is that."

"But I do not want to go!"

"But I don't _care_ ," Maria says calmly.

"But – but Mother, what will everyone think of me, if I just leave while Duccio is –" Claudia wrings her hands. "Someone else will take him from me!"

"Claudia, my darling – if Duccio can't _wait_ for you, and if he is so unfaithful as to stray from you the moment your back turns, then he is not worthy of you," Maria says sharply. "If you trust him so little then maybe there is little there to trust, hm?"

Federico smiles a little, watching them as Claudia throws her hands up and marches off in perfect tantrum. However long they will be away, he will miss them terribly – the Palazzo will be dreadfully quiet without them.

"Hiding from female wrath, Brother?" Ezio's voice asks behind him.

"Is that what we're calling our sister now?" Federico asks and turns to look at his brother. He snorts. "I see Cristina gave you a fond farewell."

Ezio rubs at his lips, looking proud of himself. "She is _wonderful_ isn't she? I will miss her," he says wistfully. "And I think she will miss me – a little more now, perhaps," he adds smugly. "Turns out, she liked the necklace I gave her. She liked it a _lot_ , Brother."

"Oh, a _necklace_? Ezio, that's basically a promise," Federico says, impressed. "My, my, I didn't think you were _that_ serious about her. When's the wedding?"

Ezio shoves at him, but he's looking a little pleased despite himself. Apparently, lot of good impressions have been made the night before. If Federico had known, he would have encouraged Ezio to do nice things for Cristina before – obviously the poor young lady is starved for such attention, and apparently the reaction wasn't entirely unwelcome on Ezio's part either. What do you know.

They might make a responsible man out of Ezio yet – perhaps even an honest one.

Ezio peers down past the roof's edge, and into the inner courtyard of Auditore Palazzo. "Tell me honestly, Brother – why is Father sending us away?" he asks. "Does it have to do with the Pazzi and Father's investigation?"

Federico smiles faintly. "Yes," he agrees. "Among other things."

Ezio looks at him seriously. "Will you not tell me, Federico?" he asks quietly.

"Would that I could, Brother, but the matter is sensitive," Federico sighs and claps a hand on Ezio's shoulder, squeezing apologetically. "The less you know, the better. I'm sorry."

"That's not much of a comfort," Ezio mutters and gives him a look. "I could _help_."

"You'll help best by being safe, and not causing Father to worry," Federico says. "Or me, for that matter. Just go to Monteriggioni and look after Mother, Claudia and Petruccio. Once everything is settled here, I think… I think Father will tell you everything."

"Everything?" Ezio asks and narrows his eyes. "What _everything_?"

Federico grins and pats Ezio's cheek – and then pinches it for good measure. "Once everything is settled," he says while Ezio winces. "Go and pack you things, little Brother. You have a journey ahead of you."

" _Federico_ ," Ezio says with tone of complaint in his voice.

"Go on," Federico says with a laugh. "Or would you like a boost? I can give you one, it'll be my pleasure."

"I'm going, I'm going," Ezio mutters and hoists himself over the edge. "I don't like this though," he says to Federico as he begins to descend to the palazzo courtyard. "Just so you know."

"Yeah," Federico agrees quietly and watches him join the others below. "I don't either."

But it would be easier on his conscience too, to know that they'd be safe and out of harm's way once everything came to a head. And judging by Father's and Messer Lorenzo's reactions to Desmond's letter, things would be coming to a head soon.

Federico settles in to watch from the rooftop as his family packs up to leave – and then almost jumps off the roof when a shadow falls on him. Turning around sharply, Federico reaches for a knife – before the dark shape crouches down, and he recognizes Desmond's hooded features.

What the –

"Ser Desmond, you scared _years_ off my life," Federico hisses and quickly releases the knife.

"Sorry," Desmond says with an awkward little grimace. "I wasn't trying to sneak up on you, if that's any consolation."

The man wasn't even _trying_? "It really isn't," Federico says and eases to sit more solidly on the rooftop so that he won't fall down and into the courtyard. "What – what can I do for you?"

Desmond clears his throat. "I have a gift, of sorts," he says and reaches for a pouch at his thick belt, noticeably full. From it he takes something which has been wrapped in ragged piece of cloth. "To be delivered to Monteriggioni – Mario Auditore will know what it is. Since your sending your family there, I thought…"

Federico frowns and accepts the gift – which turns out to be surprisingly heavy in hand. When Desmond makes no move to stop him, Federico eases the fabric aside, to reveal two heavy disks of stone, about palm's width each – each with symbol carved in them. One has hand with a hidden blade carved in it – the other, a bottle.

"What are these?" Federico asks curiously. They don't look like weapons and there's no writing on them – they're just stone disks.

"The Assassin Seals from Tombs of Darius and Iltani," Desmond says. "Me and my companions have been staying at the tombs, so… I thought it would only be polite."

Federico eyes him with some confusion and then nods. Tombs? He has no idea what the man is talking about but… he has a feeling his father probably wouldn't either, which is both strangely comforting and disheartening all at once. In either case, he doesn't feel like getting excited about it.

Not while his family is packing up to leave.

"I'll make sure Uncle Mario will get these, I guess," Federico says. "Thank you, I'm sure it's appreciated."

Desmond looks at him curiously and then looks down to the courtyard. "They'll be safer away from here," he says then, nodding to the courtyard.

"Yes," Federico agrees and then frowns. "How did you know we're sending them away?" he asks then. "Have you been watching my family?"

"Yes," Desmond says, and looks at him. "Shouldn't I have?"

"Why?" Federico says, eyes narrowed

Desmond looks a little confused by that. "I… was worried?" he asks and then shakes his head. "You have no idea how vulnerable your family is. I wanted to make sure they were safe. I meant no harm by it."

"I –" Federico starts to say and then looks away, confused. "I – thank you?" he says then, a little confused.

Desmond nods, looking back down. Federico looks between him and the scene below – Ezio is carrying a chest of clothes to the carriage at their mother's behest. Desmond's eyes follow them – his irises gleaming amber in the shadows of his black hood.

"It's better this way," Desmond says, more to himself than to Federico, and then looks up. "I'll be around this evening if you need me," the black-clad Assassin says and then just as suddenly as he appeared he leaves, leaving Federico staring after him with mingled apprehension and complete bafflement.

Down in the courtyard his family is about done packing and ready to leave. Shaking his head, Federico tucks the Seals under his doublet and then moves to join them – there'd be time to think about mystifying Master Assassins later.


	6. Chapter 6

"We have decided to lay a trap for the conspirators," Giovanni says, making Ser Desmond look up from the bookshelf he'd been idly perusing. Giovanni smiles wryly. "It is not perhaps the safest way to go about this, but if your warning is correct, they will keep on waiting and plotting until opportunity arises and both Lozenso and Giuliano agree that they can't live normally under such pressure. So, we will set a trap – and invite the assassination at place and location of our choosing."

The black-clad Assassin nods slowly and moves away from the bookshelf. Federico looks between him and his father – with the hood it's hard to say if the Assassin approves or not. "That seems dangerous," ser Desmond says after a moment.

"So is doing nothing, and waiting for the Pazzi to choose their method," Giovanni says and leans back. "Better to prompt the attack and catch them in the act and be done with it."

"Right," Desmond agrees. "Well if you think it's the smartest way to go about it. I'm guessing you're hoping I'll help you with the trap?"

"It would be appreciated," Giovanni says seriously. "You know the numbers the Pazzi have. With the local Assassins we can bolster the Medici's forces, hopefully cut the attack short – but it'll be a close thing. With more Assassins, with you and your companions…"

"My companions won't be use to you," Ser Desmond says simply, looking at him from under his hood. "They aren't fighters. And so far they haven't exactly agreed with my involvement with you. Helping you stop a coup is not why we're here."

Giovanni bows his head a little at that while Federico frowns. "Messer Lorenzo is in possession of one of the Codex pages you seek. He is willing to part with it. I have page myself here – I will hand over that as well… if you help us."

For a moment the black-clad Assassin says nothing. "Alright," he says then and shakes his head. "What's your plan?"

* * *

 

The Medici were going to hold a gathering, a small party to celebrate Giuliano's recovery from recent bouts of illness – which he hadn't actually recovered from yet, but which was good enough excuse. They didn't invite all of the Pazzi conspirators to the party – but they did invite enough of them to make it a tempting opportunity.

"The security will be lax enough to permit tampering with, sneaking in move people – and if they do, that is how we will know they are aiming to strike," Giovanni explain.  

In the meanwhile, the party would be attended largely by guests coming from the Medici's own regiment of guards and of Assassins. Paola's best girls would get a crash course on high society and attend as bright up and coming socialites, while La Volpe's best swindlers and actors would attend either as staff or as guests. Giovanni himself would not be in attendance as far as anyone knew – he would supposedly be joining his family in Monteriggioni soon. Federico would be taking his place instead, to carry his father's duties.

Ser Desmond would also be in attendance, as Federico's new private tutor and in lesser part chaperone – the Auditore children do have an reputation so no one would even be surprised.

Ser Desmond gives Federico a look when this is brought up and Federico grins without shame. "We are well known and better loved," Federico says with little humility.

"Mm-hmm," Desmond agrees dryly and turns his eyes back to Giovanni. "There will be other people from the church in attendance – won't they be suspicious?" he asks then. "I'm not really a monk – I haven't done much to establish the alter ego."

"We'll excuse it by saying you come from Monteriggioni – that you were part of my brother's house, or something like that. Mario isn't that well known in Florence, few will know enough to question it," Giovanni says. "So as long as you don't make too much noise about yourself, I doubt anyone will pay you much mind."

"Alright, I'll keep quiet, then," Desmond agrees, and looks down at himself. His robes are a little frayed. "Should I invest in better set of robes?"

"It probably wouldn't hurt, no," Giovanni agrees wryly. "I will be behind the scenes, ready to remove Lorenzo and Giuliano from the scene if it becomes necessary – Palazzo Medici thankfully has plenty of secret rooms, so securing them thusly should be possible. But I will need you on the outside to make them way, if it comes to it."

Ser Desmond hums, glancing at Federico. "I think we can manage that. What do we do about the conspirators?" he asks.

"Capture if at all possible – kill if not," Giovanni says. "The people in attendance are all influential and respectable enough that they will back our word on it being self defence."

Desmond nods slowly. "If you think that's the safest way to go, then sure, let's do it," he says.

Giovanni frowns a little. "You don't approve," he guesses.

"I think it's risky," Desmond admits. "But I couldn't think of a better plan from the top of my head – and if it succeeds, it will capture most of the conspiracy, or at least remove them from the picture. I'm just worried about how many bodies there will be at the end of it."

"Hopefully none of ours," Federico says with a mild smile. "Or the Medici's."

Desmond casts him a glance and then looks back to Giovanni. "It's all also very public. You're toeing the line of the tenets, ser Giovanni," he says and tilts his head. "Especially the last one."

Federico's smile fades a little at that and he looks to his father. Giovanni takes a breath and bows his head. "It must be done," he says. "And if we are successful, Messer Lorenzo will manage the ensuing rumours – our involvement will be kept minimal."

"I hope so," Desmond says and rests a hand on the handle of his sword. "For your family's sake, if not for your own."

Giovanni says nothing to that, merely frowns. Federico looks between them, worried – it is a little public, yeah, but it's the best plan they have and if Ser Desmond decides to not have anything to do with it…

Paola's girls and La Volpe's thieves are good – but they're not Master Assassins.

Finally Desmond sighs and shakes his head. "So," he says with a lighter tone. "When is the party?"

 

* * *

 

The wait for the party is excruciating. Obviously it can't be just thrown together willy nilly – such things take time, planning and of course the invitations must be delivered as well. If put together too fast, it will be far more suspicious than if the Medici let things run their proper course – so it is _days_ before the time of the party arrives.

In that time, Auditore Palazzo echoes hollow. With only Federico, Giovanni and occasionally Annetta there, the place seems far too big and far too empty, it's rooms left cold in lack of occupants and it's chambers silent. One would think it would be nice and calm after the usual chaos of the Auditore Family, but it isn't. it's just empty.

Federico spends as little time home as he can muster, spending his time instead running errands for his father as the last preparations for the trap are made, and when that isn't needed, he runs the rooftops and keeps an eye on the Pazzi.

From the look of them, nothing has changed – the rumours of the party have already gone out, they must be aware… but as far as Federico can tell, the rumours have little effect on their preparations. They are still bringing in more people, preparing for what looks like an actual war, for fighting in the streets.

Prompting the assassination attempt on their terms is the best plan, Federico is sure of it. Of it's consequences he isn't so sure of – even if all the conspirators are captured or killed, there are still all these ruffians in their city. The aftermath of their employees being cut down would not be pretty.

But it would have to be endured – and at least most of their family is out of harm's way, once it would become necessary to deal with all the mercenaries in the city.

Vieri de' Pazzi is greatly enjoying Ezio's absence, it looks like – he's stalking the streets of Florence like he owns them, with an entourage of thugs at his back and lot of boast on his lips. Federico watches it from the rooftops and sighs – if Vieri survives, they really need to take him down a peg or two – or dozen, really. Once amusing as Ezio's bitter rival, he's now becoming something of a nuisance.

It takes Vieri no time at all to try and make a go at Cristina, either, which is hardly a surprise and less of a pleasure to witness.

"You could do so much better than an Auditore," Vieri says while all but cornering Cristina in the street. "They are little more than thugs, scraping at the boots of the Medici – now, my father –"

"Your father, the murderer, yes," Cristina agrees flatly. "He's a great source of pride, I imagine."

"What did you say?" Vieri demands.

"Your _father,_ the _murderer,_ " Cristina says, enunciating it carefully and giving Vieri a scorching look. "And you, the common thug. Yes, you're quite the catch compared to the likes of Ezio, aren't you, Vieri?"

"You – you _bitch_ –"

Federico drops down to the alley just in time to see Cristina switch one of her rings around in her finger and then slap Vieri across the cheek, hard enough to leave a bleeding scrape behind. Vieri yowls in outrage and quickly Federico moves to Cristina's side.

"Hello, my dear Cristina, lovely day, isn't it?" he greets her warmly, noticing how carefully she hides her relief. Grinning, Federico turns to the Pazzi and his thugs, all of whom are bristling and going for their weapons. "What's this then, Vieri? Handling rejection with your usual aplomb, I see."

"You – just how many Auditores are you fucking, you slut?" Vieri demands from Cristina. "If it takes this many of them to satisfy you, then you really should try and look for someone better."

Federico rocks on his heels, glancing at Cristina who goes from mildly afraid and secretly relieved to completely livid in a flash. "Vieri, you useless little _stain_ of a man," she says, cold and hard. "You wouldn't know a satisfied woman if she sat on your face – and oh, yes, they don't, do they? Not unless there's a money purse sitting on your forehead."

Federico smothers a burst of delighted laughter – yeah, Ezio snagged himself quite the woman.

"You – you little –" Vieri sputters and then points at them. "Get her for me – and get rid of him!" he snaps, waving a finger at Federico.

"Please, Cristina – allow me," Federico says and then moves around her smoothly to meet Vieri's thugs with his fists. Really, with all the tension happening concerning the Medici, it's just what he needs – a little healthy exercise.

It's not much of a fight, all told – Federico has put more effort into prancing Ezio, really – but it's bracing enough to loosen his joints and one of them almost even manages to land a hit before Federico crabs the man by the scruff of his neck and hauls him at Vieri. The clatter they make while falling onto the alley floor is delightful.

"Federico, you son of a _bitch,_ " Vieri growls and haphazardly goes for a sword – Federico takes out a knife before he can and then makes a show of using it to clean the blood under his fingernails.

"Run along now, Vieri," he says, examining his nails calmly and flicking a bit of blood at Vieri. "And try and aiming little closer to your own level the next time you decide to approach a female. I hear there are some lovely sows you might find by the city outskirts."

Vieri snarls at him, jostling at his sword – he gets it few inches out of its sheath before thinking better of it and thrusting it back in with a violent snap. Moment later, he turns around to stalk away. "This isn't over, Cristina!" he snaps.

"Oh, yes it is," she mutters, resting her hands at her hips while Federico goes about kicking some energy into Vieri's thugs, to send them on their way. "I see you Auditores have something of a knightly streak about you. Thank you, Federico."

"It was a pleasure, my dear," Federico grins. "I hear you're practically family now, so it's only right."

Cristina blushes rather fetchingly and touches her throat, where Federico can see the chain of her necklace. "He isn't _that_ serious," she says, a little uncertain.

"Trust me, Cristina, Ezio has never been more serious about a woman," Federico says and holds out a hand. She takes it and with a smile Federico kisses her knuckles. "Though he does have a sadly only one thing in his head at a time, so you need to forgive him that for his occasional stupidity. We've been trying to teach him the art of reason for years, but he's hopelessly dumb. You will have to be brains of that outfit, I'm afraid."

Cristina laughs a little. "Well, I find it charming," she admits and then blushes. "And can't say I mind it _terribly_ much."

Federico grins. Ezio really found a woman after his own heart, didn't he? "Would you like me to walk you home, my dear?"

"That would be lovely, Federico, thank you," Cristina says and offers her arm. "And in the meanwhile you can tell me what he's told you about me."

"It would be my pleasure."

The Vespucci house isn't that far, but it's far enough for Federico notice that they're being shadowed. It's a tingle in the back of his head at first, sensation of being watched, and at first Federico thinks it's Vieri and his thugs, coming back for a second round after all. But no, the sensation of being watched comes from above.

Federico glances upward and then looks ahead when he spots the black hooded shadow on the rooftops, his heart skipping a beat. It's a testament to how many times the man has snuck up on him by now – Federico seems to be developing a sense of the man out of sheer self defence, now.

"It has been lovely, my dear, and I wish you the very best of days, but now I got to run," Federico says after delivering Cristina to her doorsteps.

"It was delightful, thank you Ser Federico," Cristina says and then hesitates. "Do you know when the rest of your family will be returning to Florence?"

"No, my lady, I'm afraid it all depends on how quickly Petruccio recovers," Federico says. "I'm sure you will be Ezio's first stop when they do return."

Cristina smiles a little at that and nods. "Thank you. Have a good day, Federico."

As she disappears indoors, closing the door after her, Federico looks up. Ser Desmond is standing in the shadow of a slightly taller building beside the roof he is sitting on, leaning lightly to its wall. Federico considers the shape he makes, almost unnoticeable in the shadows and almost alluringly mysterious in his hood and robes. He stands so casually – and yet seems so dangerous.

One day, Federico would be just like this man. He can't wait.

Federico licks his lips and then goes to scale the wall to get up to the man's level, pushing himself up from window frame to window frame until he reaches the edge of the rooftop and pulls himself up. "Ser Desmond," he greets the man. "Lovely evening, isn't it?"

"It's not bad," Desmond agrees, watching him and then turning away. "Seems like you had a bit of action."

"If you can call it that," Federico says and shrugs. "Vieri is little more than a thug."

"Mm," Desmond agrees. "Still a Templar."

Federico frowns. He hadn't exactly forgotten but… Vieri is such a small time nuisance most of the time, it's hard to take him seriously. "Vieri is trash, but I don't know if he's a killer," he says quietly. "He doesn't have the balls for that."

"You'd be surprised how little it takes, to kill a man," Desmond mutters and looks to him. "Have there been any chances in the plans?"

"Not as far as I know of," Federico asks and frowns. "Why?"

Desmond doesn't answer immediately, looking away. He seems a little embarrassed. "There's still couple days left – and I understand your palazzo is mostly empty, now."

Federico frowns. "Yes?" he says, stretching the word out a little, confused. "What of it?"

Desmond hesitates, and sighs, and then admits ruefully; "Me and my companions have been living in a tomb for well over a week now," he says. "And they are getting a little frustrated about it. I have been… instructed to ask if we could use the amenities at your Palazzo. Please."

For a moment Federico just stares at him. "You want –?" he trails off, confused.

"They want to _bathe,_  badly," Desmond sighs. "And I can't listen to them complain about it anymore."

Somehow, that is not at all what Federico had been expecting. "I, uh… can't promise you anything, but I'll ask my father? I'm fairly sure he won't mind it," and Giovanni definitely wouldn't mind meeting the people Ser Desmond is working with, especially since they don't seem to be Assassins like the man is. Federico definitely wouldn't mind a peek at them either. "But there's the issue of security – it's likely that our palazzo is being watched."

Still, for Ser Desmond to be working with people who are uppity about _bathing_ , that's… surprising.

"We can use the underground tunnel," Desmond offers.

Federico frowns a little. "You know about those too, huh," he asks and rests hands on his hips. "Is there anything you _don't_ know about my family?"

Desmond clears his throat, awkward. "I'll just come around later to see what you father says about using your house," he says. "If that is alright?"

Federico eyes him and then sighs. "I will ask him, yes," he says. "I'm sure it will be fine. We also have means to maintain your gear if you wish to sharpen and oil your weapons and armour."

Ser Desmond hesitates and then nods. "That would be useful, thank you," he says and glances his way almost sheepishly. "I know this is weird thing for an Assassin to ask, but thank you. I really appreciate it."

"Mm-hmm," Federico answers, little amused now. "You're really living in a tomb?" he asks, and then does a double take.

He almost misses it, but for a moment, just for a _blink._.. Ser Desmond's eyes stray downwards.

"It is the most secure location in the city for us," the black-clad Assassin says, clearing his throat and turning away with a dusting of red on his cheeks. "It's not as if we can rent rooms at an inn, or roll up to an actual monastery."

Federico let's the utterly weird phrasing pass by without comment and looks down at himself instead. He hadn't paid much attention to it, but after scaling the wall his doublet is gaping open a little more than it usually is – good half of his chest is in view now. It's not terribly unusual for him and far from embarrassing – he wears his doublets open for a reason and the reactions are always enjoyable, be their positive or negative or shamefaced blend of both.

Federico might not be quite as pretty as Ezio, but he likes to be looked at and he bothers to feel no shame about that.

And ser Desmond looked. Oh he definitely _looked_.

Federico looks up at the Assassin, his eyes wide as a sudden _thrilling_ new notion awakens in his head.

The black-robed Assassin clears his throat again. "Well, I won't keep you any longer," he says and turns to go. "I'll come around later this evening to see what your father said."

"I'll be looking forward to it," Federico says, feeling a slow smile bloom to his lips. The Assassin leaves without acknowledging it, maybe doesn't even notice it. Federico doesn't care, his smile breaking into a grin as the Assassin disappears into the streets below.

Ser Desmond looked – and unless Federico has suddenly lost all his wits, he also _liked_ what he saw.

* * *

 

Of course, Giovanni allows ser Desmond and his companions to visit the palazzo for the night – he even pays Annetta extra for a long night of work, fetching and boiling water for the baths. Federico even helps, seeing as they don't know exactly how many companions the black-robed Assassin has. It's probably more than just one, since the man always speaks of plurals.

"And they are staying at a tomb?" Annetta asks while she and Federico carry the water over to the bathroom.

"That's what he tells me," Federico agrees. "Apparently it's more secure that way."

"I suppose. Who would look for anyone in a tomb?" Annetta says and shudders. "They must be filthy – do you think they would like for me to wash they clothing too? I can prepare some water for that as well."

"I think it's better be safe than sorry," Federico says and pours the water into the awaiting bathtub. They only have the one, hopefully ser Desmond and his companions wouldn't mind sharing too much – Federico and Annetta fill the hip bath and a larger pail with clean water as well, while waiting for the hot water to boil.

Giovanni is home also, going through some documents for the bank as well as shuffling through missives from the thieves and courtesans. "From what we can tell, the Pazzi and the conspirators haven't yet been clued in on our plot, but they don't seem to be taking the bait either," Giovanni says when Federico is done with Annetta and the baths are ready. "But we didn't know they were plotting this to begin with so… their skills at secrecy might eclipse ours."

"Let's hope not," Federico says. "I'd hate for this all to be for nothing."

"Indeed," Giovanni says and then leans back in his chair. "Son, tell me your impression of Ser Desmond – honestly now."

Federico considers it for a moment. "I have no doubt that he is skilled but…" he looks for a word for it, for that strange… quality the black-clad Assassin has. To look at him, one would expect the man to be intimidating, perhaps even threatening – man wearing such arsenal and carrying himself with such lethal confidence, you'd think they'd be terrifying. But he isn't – far from it. "Sometimes he comes across oddly… naïve, I guess."

"Naïve?" Giovanni repeats with surprise. "How so?"

Federico thinks of the blush his bare chest put on the man's cheeks. Well, it might have been the embarrassment of his living conditions too, but Federico rather doubts it. It's not only that, though. "Well maybe naïve is wrong word. It's the way he talks, Father, the ease with which he shares information," Federico says and leans back on the divan. "And sometimes just the way he says things is strange. I don't know how to put it – he just seems… inexperienced, somehow."

Federico grimaces, dissatisfied with how he put it – but he can't put it any other way. There is no doubt that ser Desmond is dangerous – but sometimes he just seems lost with them, like he doesn't know how to act, maybe? And that is then contrasted with his skills in other areas, his sheer competence – it's an odd mixture. He's lethally secretive but openly casual, all at once

"He is a foreigner, who knows how new he is to these parts," Giovanni comments and then frown. "His accent is nearly Florentine, though.

"Yes," Federico agrees and glances at his father. "He talks strangely sometimes, though, have you noticed? How he words things, it's… odd." And then there are the words he used, some of them completely alien.

"Yes, it's often rather peculiar," Giovanni agrees. "But foreigners often do talk strangely. Translating their own mode of speech into new languages can leave a man's speech clunky, in such manner."

"Maybe," Federico agrees and looks up to the ceiling. "Where do you think he comes from? England?"

Giovanni sighs. "Hard to tell," he admits and sets his papers down. "Do you think he is trustworthy?"

Federico frowns a little at that – the tone the question was asked in was strange. "Father?"

Giovanni looks his way. "There is a chance he is working for the Templars," he comments. "He comes to us with little proof of his origins or the truth of his words, speaking of conspiracies. It is a little much, after all, to believe such an unknown man at his word alone, only because he claims to be an Assassin."

Federico looks away. He's not sure Ser Desmond has ever claimed the title of Assassin, actually. He is one, no doubt about it, but… he didn't introduce himself as such. "I think he's trustworthy," he says finally. "He'd make a very odd Templar plant."

"True," Giovanni mutters, still serious, and looks up as there's a knock on his office door. "Well, perhaps his companions will clue us in as to his origins and motivations. Come in, Annetta."

The maid opens the door enough to peek in. "Ser Giovanni," she says. "You have guests. They are waiting at the courtyard."

"Thank you, Annetta," Giovanni says and stands. "Let us go welcome them to our home, then."

Federico all but bounces to his feet, eager to see who Desmond brought with him, what they are like these mysterious companions of him – and in how bad a state did living in a tomb leave them all. And he's eager to see ser Desmond too – though perhaps for vastly different reasons… if more pleasant ones.

It is of course the black-clad Assassin in the courtyard, accompanied by two others. They all wear similar robes – in fact, near identical – but unlike Desmond with his arsenal of knives and armour, his companions only wear belts and pouches and single daggers at their sides, no swords or chest guards. They are similarly hooded as Desmond, though, hiding their features under the shadows of their cowls.

The mysterious monks the scarred monk had arrived in Florence with, then – a man with hint of ginger beard… and a _woman_ , smiling faintly from under her hood.

"Ser Giovanni, Federico," Desmond greets them with a slight bow. "These are my companions, Shaun and Rebecca."

"It's a pleasure to meet you both," Giovanni says, visibly surprised by the woman in monk's robes. "You are welcome in my house and I'm happy to be of service to you both."

Federico leans in curiously – and then his eyebrows lift as Desmond turns and begins speaking in a foreign language to the pair, motioning to Giovanni as he speaks. Of all the things he says, only the names are understandable as Desmond introduces them to his companions… neither of whom apparently speaks the language.

"I'm sorry," Desmond says, turning back to Giovanni. "I'm the only one of us who speaks Italian fluently – Shaun understands some, but his pronunciation is terrible."

" _Fuck-you,_ " the aforementioned Shaun says, squinting at Desmond and pronouncing every syllable clearly and slowly – but yes, terribly.

Desmond smiles at that, not least bit offended, and shakes his head. "Anyway," he says to Giovanni and Federico. "I'm really grateful about this and hopefully we won't be bothering you for long, so…"

"Yes, right, of course," Giovanni says, looking as confused and interested as Federico feels. "Right this way, then – we've prepared some bathing water for you, you're free to take your time. And perhaps afterwards we can talk some?"

"I think Annetta has also prepared some food, if you're hungry," Federico says, smiling to Desmond. "We haven't had evening meal yet, you're welcome to join us."

Giovanni casts him a look while Desmond turns to relay that information to the others. The woman with them, Rebecca, is immediately interested – so much so that she pushes her hood back in blatant excitement.

The look of her is surprising – her hair is cut short in strange, misshapen style that hugs the back of her neck but stands up on end on the top. The man, Shaun, snaps something at her along with her name and she rolls her eyes, turning to Desmond and asking something - Shaun talking over her. They're all but elbowing each other.

"Ah, right," Desmond says and lets out a rueful huff. "We'd be delighted to join you – also Shaun offers you compliments on your house and hospitality. Though Rebecca would like me to kindly ask you that she'd be served no meat, as she doesn't eat it."

"I'm sure we can manage that," Giovanni says, shaking his head with some confusion. "And thank Ser Shaun for the compliment, as said, we're happy to be of service."

Desmond translates it, to which Shaun nods imperiously, giving Ser Desmond a pointed squint. The Assassin huffs out a laugh and turns to Giovanni. "We're very grateful," he says ruefully. "And sorry about the trouble we're causing."

"It's quite alright," Giovanni says, smiling faintly. "Please - come right this way, then."

Federico waits for the others to follow his father and holds the tail of the group, watching Desmond and his companions with great interest. Rebecca and Shaun, though he can't understand a word of it, are obviously bickering about something – lovers, perhaps even married? Desmond walks ahead of them, the leader of the group and slightly distanced from the bickering, but listening to it with clear fondness.

They are more than just companions or fellow Assassins working at same mission, it seems. How very interesting.

They lead their guests to the bathroom, where Rebecca and Shaun bicker some more, Desmond listening to them with half a ear and the shaking his head. "Thank you again," he says while behind him his companions seem to fight about who gets to go first. "I think we can manage from here on."

"Certainly," Giovanni agrees a little faintly while Federico's brows arch with interest. They're going to bath together, all three of them?  Well now, they must come from a very interesting place indeed.

"You can find me in the sitting room if you need anything," Federico sais, his imagination running a little wild now. "Also our maid Annetta offered to wash your clothes for you if you'd like."

"We might take you up on that, thank you again," Desmond nods and then turns his companions, saying something as he closes the door. As it closes Federico can hear Shaun squawking something in outrage - and then Ser Desmond, laughing.

Oh.

"Well, now," Giovanni says and claps Federico on the shoulder. "This is turning out to be an interesting evening, isn't it, Son?"

"Yes, most definitely," Federico agrees, and it comes out maybe a little bit too heartfelt for his father sighs heavy and knowing. "What?" Federico asks innocently. "I was only agreeing with you, Father."

Giovanni sets a hand on the back of his neck and firmly steers him away from the door. "You can agree with me - at a distance. Come on, Son, let's give our guests their due privacy."

A little disappointed, Federico follows - with new plans brewing under the surface.

Sometime soon he's going on make Desmond laugh just like that, just that fondly - and only for him.


	7. Chapter 7

Ser Desmond's companions are… interesting to say at least. Even when Federico can't understand more than word or two of what they're saying – and those words are mainly names – they are entertaining to watch. There's a camaraderie there that runs deep enough that it makes Federico wonder if they're not actually all related somehow, siblings even. If they all didn't look so vastly different from each other…

They all emerge from the bath freshly washed and obviously in better mood – and still bickering lightly with each other. Desmond seems to be the target of that said bickering now, judging by his sighs and muttering single syllable answers to whatever bit of sarcasm Shaun is throwing at him – and judging by the sound of it, it's a lot. Rebecca says something every now and then, sounding mostly indulgent, but there's a constant undercurrent of fondness there.

It doesn't look like anything more than bathing happened, though, which Federico isn't sure he's sorry or happy for. Though bit more relaxed, they don't look sated. Pity – he was enjoying the mental images of it.

What he is enjoying even more though it's the actual visual of Desmond, freshly washed – with his belt, armour, pouches and various sheaths hanging off his arm, and his hood down. His features are even more distinct, sans the shadows of his hood, and he has cheekbones fine enough to give Ezio run for his money. He has also, finally, shaved and though the smattering of beard hadn't looked terrible on him… clean shaven suits him better, Federico thinks.

"All better now?" he asks, as the others follow ser Desmond into the sitting room.

"Yes, thank you," Desmond says and runs a hand through his short, damp hair and smiling. "Again, sorry about the hassle."

"It's alright, it wasn't much trouble," Federico says, glancing at the others. Shaun is rubbing at his eyes and making faces while Rebecca cards her fingers through her own damp hair, pushing it back. "And it looks like you needed it."

"Well, yes," Desmond agrees and glances at the other. "Apparently eau du grave isn't an attractive odour."

"I'll say," Federico grins a little, surprised. He's seen glimpses of it, sometimes it shines through Desmond's speech – but apparently the mysterious Master Assassin has a sense of humour in there. Very nice. "My father is preparing some forms for you to look at, concerning the party – and Annetta is still preparing dinner. Would you like to look at your gear in the meanwhile?"

"Yeah, that'd be great, thanks," Desmond agrees.

Federico rolls to his feet. "Right this way, then," he says and motions, perhaps too lavishly, towards the doors.

Shaun looks up at that, blinking and asking something, to which the Master Assassin waves a dismissive hand. There's few words changed before Rebecca lets out a sigh and pretty much flops down onto the seat where Federico had sat, stretching out her legs and sighing with relief. Shaun, squinting suspiciously at her, goes to join her – and then groans.

Desmond laughs and glances at Federico. "If they steal your couch, I'm sorry."

"You don't have much in form of bedding at your tomb, I take," Federico asks, amused. Nor are they used to living rough – but he could've figured that out just from the importance they put on bathing. Not that Federico can blame them – he wouldn't really like to live in a tomb either.

"Not as such, no," Desmond says and turns to the door. "And stealing and sneaking in mattresses isn't really the easiest thing to do, when the entrance is in a public road. Shall we?"

"Oh, we shall," Federico agrees and moves to lead Desmond out of the sitting room, through the corridors and into what had been the servant's side of the palazzo, before the Auditore had gotten the place. Now, most of it has been converted to other purposes, as they only have the one servant and Annetta doesn't live with them around the clock. One of the rooms is now a workshop, publicly dedicated to Maria Auditore's painting and artistry – unofficially, it's where their father maintains his assassin equipment.

Desmond looks around the room, at the paintings on the wall, with a strange expression before turning to the workbench and setting his equipment down on it. Federico watches with interest as the man spreads the pieces out, and then goes to get his father's toolkit.

"Do you need – ah, right," Federico says and lets out a laugh.

"Hm?" Desmond asks, looking up.

"I was about to offer you gloves – but never mind," Federico says and shakes his head – Desmond already is wearing gloves.

The Assassin looks down on them and flexes his hands, smiling awkwardly. "Yes, well… thank you anyway," he says and turns back to his gear.

Federico looks at his hands – he's never seen Desmond without his gloves, and he'd worn them straight out of the bath too, so… It's probably for a reason – and it's probably not polite to ask about it. "All your gear is from Florence," Federico comments, as Desmond eases buckles open and straightens out the belts of his armour pieces. They are also pretty new – there are few scrapes and scuffs marks here and there, but mostly his armour looks undamaged

"Yes, I got them here," Desmond agrees, running a hand over the chest guard, snapping a fingernail against it. Then he turns to the toolkit, looking over what's available there. "We didn't arrive here with much."

Federico nods and pulls up a bench to watch. "And Rebecca and Shaun aren't fighters, at all?" Neither of them wore any kind of armour, even their belts weren't quite as thick and protective as ser Desmond's.

"They can if they have to, but they are more like planners and researchers," Desmond agrees and takes a brush to start clean the worst of what little dirt there is present. He glances at Federico. "How long have you been training as an Assassin?"

Federico grins, leaning in. "Three years now," he says. "Father begun training me when I was seventeen."

Desmond looks at him funnily at that, almost with astonishment. "At seventeen?"

"What – how long did your training take?"

The Master Assassin looks away and then lets out a rueful laugh. "It's not really comparable," he mutters and then looks away. "At seventeen, huh?"

"I guess it's pretty late, compared to how it was in olden times," Federico says, looking him over. "But Mother was adamant about me experiencing normal life and childhood and only starting once I was grown up, and Father agreed."

"That's nice," Desmond says thoughtfully. "That's _good_."

Federico tilts his head a little at his tone of voice. "I guess so," he says then, little more subdued, wondering what it might've been like, if his training had started earlier – if it had started from birth. What it might have been like for Desmond.

"And your brother?" Desmond asks, turning his attention to brushing his greaves clean. "Is he to be trained?"

"Ezio? Yes, he will be," Federico says and leans back a little. "Father will probably begin as soon as this Pazzi business is over – if uncle Mario doesn't do it first."

Desmond nods at that, wiping the greaves clean one by one before taking one of the rags in the toolkit, and repeating the process with more care, his movements adjusted and practiced. Leaning his elbow onto the table's edge, Federico traces the man's features with his eyes. There's really something familiar about them, but he can't quite wrap his head around it. Something about the scar…

There's a knock on the door and as Desmond and Federico look up, Giovanni steps in. "Excuse me – your companions told me you'd be… here." He trails off, his eyebrows twitching slightly.

"They did?" Desmond asks with amused arch of his brow.

Giovanni blinks and then shakes his head, amused. "Well, ser Shaun pointed this way, at any rate," he says and waves a piece of paper he's holding. "I have some details on our plan concerning the gathering, I thought we could go over them as you work."

"Sure," Desmond says and pulls some of his gear to the other side of the table. "Go ahead."

Federico already knows most of the plan – he'd been drilled on what to do and how to act and which people to stick close to at the party – so he only listens with half a year as Giovanni details the plan to the Master Assassin. Most of it's about which rooms they should stay in and how close to Lorenzo – close enough to offer assistance but not close enough to seem suspicious, basically.

"As you will be acting as Federico's chaperone and tutor, you'll likely be asked some questions about it," Giovanni says and looks between them – giving Federico a meaningful look and Desmond a near apologetic one. "I suggest the pair of you decide what will work between you as a subject of your tutelage, to make it believable."

"Right," Desmond agrees. "So there will be gathering first, then mass, then dinner… hmm. Are you prepared to act if they hit the Medici during the mass?"

"Yes, we have people in place," Giovanni says. "Though it'll be riskier – I'm hoping you two will stay closer to the Medici during mass. I will be there as well, but to avoid deterring the assassination attempt, I will stay hidden. They know about me and are less likely to act if I'm there."

Desmond nods. "Makes sense," he says. "Anything else I should know?"

Giovanni looks at Federico, considering it. Federico gives him the best innocent look he can manage and in the end his father only sighs. "Please, if at all possible, take care of my son," he says. "I trust his abilities, but he's still very much a novice."

Federico lets out an exaggerated gasp and clasps a hand to his chest. "Father, you would hurt me so?"

"It's the truth," Giovanni says flatly. "Don't overestimate yourself, Federico. There's still much for you to learn."

Desmond glances between them and then looks away, back to his equipment. "I'll see what I can do," he says and reaches for the oils. "I'd hate to see something happen to your son, ser Giovanni."

Safely out of the Master Assassin's field of view, Federico makes a swooning sort of gesture and Giovanni rolls his eyes at him.

"So would I, but I'm afraid there's only so much he can be protected from – and _himself_ has sadly never been one of those things," Giovanni says wryly and looks to Desmond, and his gear. He hums with interest. "You favour knives?" he asks then.

"I guess I find daggers and knives faster," Desmond agrees. "Rebecca is working on other things for me to use, but we don't have a workshop like this to use," he says, motioning around them. "Until then, it's daggers and throwing knifes for me."

"She… can make weapons?" Giovanni asks curiously.

"She can make anything she sets her mind to," Desmond says and shakes his head. "So as long as she has the resources. Which we don't, these days."

Federico tilts his head, glancing at his father and looking to Desmond's face. He doesn't look too bothered by it, but there's hint of something there. Exhaustion or maybe frustration. "Do you mind if I ask what happened?" Federico asks. "You came to Florence with nothing, you live in a tomb – were you robbed, or…?"

Though who could rob a Master Assassin?

Desmond doesn't answer immediately, concentrating onto oiling his chest guard. Then he shakes his head. "No, we weren't robbed," he says and frowns. "I guess you could say we got exiled."

Giovanni's eyes widen at that and he looks up to Federico sharply. Federico frowns – that's… as much as he admires Desmond, that's worrisome. "From – the Branch of the Brotherhood you're from?" he asks slowly.

Ser Desmond has never claimed the title of Assassin. He wears the hood and carries the mannerism with the practiced ease of a born Assassin, but he's never called himself that. And he doesn't call his companions that either – and they aren't fighters. So, does that mean…

Desmond chuckles wryly and shakes his head, glancing at Giovanni. "A piece of Eden was involved," he admits quietly. "We didn't agree how it was about to be used, the consequences it would've had to the world. So… we were sent away to somewhere where we couldn't make trouble anymore."

That term again. Federico grimaces with frustration, looking up to his father, but Giovanni's expression has drawn thoughtful and tense. "And this Piece of Eden, where is it now?"

"Very, very far away," Desmond says with a snort of bitter laugh. "Not really an issue here."

"I see," Giovanni says quietly. "So the reason you are searching for the Codex, for this Map…"

Desmond shakes his head. "Mostly I just want to keep it out of Templar hands," he says. "It's too big a risk. We don't think they've managed to decode the map yet, there are too many pieces missing and the map is only really readable when all the pieces are together, but… better safe than sorry."

Giovanni nods slowly. "Yes, I agree," he says, considering the other Assassin. "Perhaps we will talk about this more later – I would very much like to hear more about the Pieces of Eden and what you know about them."

Desmond nods, but doesn't answer, his attention fully on his gear now.

Giovanni nods. "Later perhaps," he says and pushes away from the workbench. "Dinner should be ready soon – once you're done here, please join us in the dining hall. Son," he says.

"Father," Federico answers and folds his arms, making no move to get up.

Giovanni considers him and then shakes his head. "You'll show ser Desmond to the dinning hall once he is done," he says simply.

"Of course, Father," Federico says and smiles winningly at him. Giovanni rolls his eyes and turns to leave. Federico looks after him and then turns to Desmond, frowning. "What are the Pieces of Eden?" he asks.

Desmond blinks and glances at him. "You father hasn't told you?"

Federico shakes his head. "And if you tell me now I'm too young to know or some other similar nonsense, you will lose all the respect I have for you," he says flatly. "Father goes pale every time they're mentioned – what are they?"

Desmond considers him for a moment with something wry and mirthless in his smile. "They are artefacts of great power. You could call them magic, but they're actually highly advanced technology," Desmond says quietly. "They have the power to enslave humanity."

* * *

 

Dinner, after what Desmond tells him, goes past Federico without him tasting a single thing he eats. His head is whirling with concepts that refuse to settle, with stories and myths and legends that make nary a sense. If it wasn't for his father's reaction, he would've chalked it off as nonsense – but… but he can't.

Desmond eats quietly beside him, occasionally translating some comment from Shaun and Rebecca for Giovanni, and vice versa – Federico thinks they're mostly about the palazzo and it's building, about the paintings in the walls. Shaun seems interested in architecture, for some reason, but Federico doesn't care.

Assassins and Templars, according to Desmond, had grown around the ancient war for the Pieces of Eden, starting with the _Apple of Eden_. Or the Apple of Altaïr as it's probably known – probably, Desmond said, because he wasn't sure how the story might've been passed down, if it even is. From what Federico knows, it isn't – because he's never heard of anything about it.

And apparently, it's all there, in the Codex Desmond is looking for – Altaïr's stories about the Apple of Eden, the things he'd learned from it, including a map to more of them.

The whole thing seems so hopelessly fantastical that Federico just can't – can't _think_ straight. It feels like he's stepped into a bedtime story, only it's a horrible one with magic and powers to control the minds of men.

And Desmond came from an Order that had sought to use such an item, and in so doing do something horrible to the world? Federico can't comprehend it. Life in Florence suddenly seems so safe, so small in comparison to what it must be outside. And all he has is Desmond's word for it.

It would be so easy to reject it as stories, as lies, fantasy. It should be easy to reject it.

It should be.

The dinner passes him by thus and before Federico even notices it, Annetta is collecting the plates from under their noses and pouring more wine. Federico drains half of his glass without tasting it, while Desmond sips his calmly and Shaun and Rebecca sniff at theirs with varying levels of suspicion and curiosity.

"Now is there anything else I can do for you?" Giovanni asks, looking between Desmond and the others. "I'm sorry to say that due to security reasons I can't offer you the full use of my Palazzo, we are under too much scrutiny for it to unnoticed, but if there is anything else…"

Desmond leans back, sipping his wine and then setting it down. "Our original plan wasn't to stay in Florence for long," he admits. "Only for as long as it took to collect the pages that are here – but it has taken longer than we'd like. And the tomb in which we are staying is not really suitable for prolonged living."

"Or _any_ ," Shaun mutters clumsily and says something in their native language, sharp and cutting.

"Yes, or any sort of living," Desmond agrees and turns to Giovanni. "If you know a place we could purchase quietly without too many people noticing…"

"Purchase?" Giovanni asks. "You have the money for that sort of thing, but you're not staying at an Inn?"

"Inns have people and enable rumours – and we don't blend in," Desmond shrugs.

"Of course," Giovanni muses and leans back. "I will have to think about this – there might be places in Florence where you could make yourself home. It will have to wait until after the gathering, however – it's taking priority for now."

"Right, of course," Desmond agrees. "I'd appreciate it anyway."

Giovanni nods, stroking a finger over his chin and watching the other Assassin thoughtfully. "Are you aiming to stay at Florence permanently, then?" he asks curiously.

Desmond frowns a little at that, looking down at his glass and then turns to his companions, saying something.

It's like someone had thrown a firecracker at Shaun – he almost explodes with obvious arguments. Federico leans back with surprise, sharing a surprised look with his father, as the previously polite – if sarcastic – seeming man snaps at Desmond, waving a hand and shaking his head. Rebecca interjects something, looking between the two men and shaking her head, and Desmond leans back with a sigh, saying something which is not well received.

It's an old disagreement, it looks like – though the words are mystery, the tone of exasperation and frustration is easy enough to understand. They're hashing what sounds like old arguments in a dispute that has been going on for a while, now gaining new energy from Desmond's new suggestion.

Shaun it seems is not in favour of staying in Florence. Rebecca is calmer, but not terribly happy either – and Desmond seems almost guilty, under the barrage of Shaun's arguments. Still he says something, it sounds bitter and sarcastic, only to be snapped back with something that sounds worse and ends in very frustrated, "… _Altaïr_!"

"Shaun!" Rebecca snaps sharply while Desmond flinches back a little.

Shaun, half risen from his seat, squinting around guiltily. "Ex-excuse me," he mutters awkwardly and sinks back down to his seat, looking nervous.

Federico shares a look with his father, whose eyes are slightly narrowed, as the silence stretches tense and awkward.

Finally Desmond says something in their foreign tongue and then looks up. "We're looking to stay here temporarily only," he says and drains his wine glass empty in one go. Then he stands up. "And I think we should probably stop bothering you with our issues tonight. I'm sorry about all the hassle we've caused – I can pay back for the hospitality –"

"No, please, it's quite alright. You will repay me thousand fold by aiding my son at the upcoming mission," Giovanni says and rises to his feet. "I'm only glad to have been of service, Ser Desmond."

The Master Assassin nods and quietly pulls his hood on, hiding his features once more in their shadows. "Thank you again," he says, while Shaun and Rebecca stand up also, pulling on their hoods as well, hiding various shades of unhappiness under them.

Shaun offers an awkward, "T-thank you – for," and then can't seem to manage the last word and only bows his head. Rebecca doesn't even try, giving an awkward, "Thank," in awkward Italian and then hurrying to follow Desmond out of the room, Shaun close at her heel.

It's a weird mood they leave behind, as Federico leans back in his seat and Giovanni slowly sits back down. For a while, neither of them say a word, looking at where the three had sat.

"Did Shaun just call him _Altaïr_?" Federico then asks quietly, looking to his father.

"Hm, I wonder," Giovanni says grimly, and calls to Annette to refill their glasses.

* * *

 

With the mission deadline approaching, there's not that much time left to wonder about the mystery of Desmond, Shaun and Rebecca. Before the actual mission, Federico only sees Desmond only once after their visit to the palazzo, really – and it's only to make sure their stories line up properly at the party.

"I think the safest thing would be for me to be your tutor in languages," Desmond says. "I know a few, enough to pretend to be a teacher."

"Well, most people will think you're there just to keep me in line," Federico says and grins without shame. "I might have a reputation."

Desmond gives him a look. "Mmhmm," he agrees wryly. "Still, I'll be teaching you Arabic, Latin and in lesser part French. And of course whatever else a monk might be expected to teach, scripture and such. That sound okay?"

"I guess. I know bit of the latter two and next to nothing of the first. Except the Creed, of course," Federico admits, and quietly recites the words, " _Laa shay'a waqi'un moutlaq bale kouloun moumkine_ ", while watching Desmond's face closely for reaction.

The Assassin's expression gains a slightly pinched look. "Right – we might as well start with that one," he says and runs a hand over his face. "I'm going to teach you how to pronounce that properly."

Whether that is conclusive or not, Federico isn't sure. The suspicion is still there and it's obvious enough that Giovanni is _concerned_ where it comes to ser Desmond. They still know little about the man and its origins – as open as he is about sharing his secrets, those secrets don't seem to be much rooted in evidence, which makes them how to pin down as facts.

There is something going on there, something big. It's in the ease of skill and openness of word, in the hint of confusion and sense of loss, the lack of resources and yet the ease of accumulating new ones. Desmond is strange, his companions are completely foreign, and little of him makes sense – it's too many mysteries on top of another. It should be off putting.

It's really not, though.

The more mysteries Federico uncovers, the more he wants to solve them – strip Desmond bare of them until he knows everything there is to know about the man. And maybe just strip him bare while he's at it because despite the bathing incident, he's only ever seen Desmond in full robes. Considering the man has the full view of his chest and offers so little in return, it's rather unfair.

Really, if there was more time… but alas, the party approaches.

* * *

 

In normal conditions, Federico loves such gatherings. Dressing up all fancy with Ezio on one side and Claudia on the other, ready throw themselves into a world of trouble – it's fun. Especially so if it happens to be a gathering with Vieri and such invited to – nothing quite as exciting as partying with enemies. Except it's usually not quite as literal as this time.

The abundance of threats, knives and potential of murder kind of drains the fun out of the whole thing. As does the lack of his siblings – and his father, too. Giovanni might be present but only behind the scenes and not out in the open – which would leave Federico fielding questions, accusations and potential insults alone, without any true back up. And somehow he doubts ser Desmond would care about defending Auditore's family honour for him.

With how many Pazzi would be in attendance, Federico is really not looking forward to it.

But mission is a mission, and he's prepared to do his duty. So he dresses up in clean shirt and hose, with freshly pressed pants and a doublet which he rather uncomfortably fastens all the way up to the base of his neck. While Annetta polishes his nicer ankle boots, Federico considers a jerkin to finish the outfit – he would have to wear a hat too, wouldn't he? What a drag.

"I have to say, ser Federico, proper isn't a bad look on you," Annetta comments, while offering him the freshly cleaned boots, their buckles gleaming with new polish.

"I feel as if I'm choking on this," Federico mutters, tugging at his collar. "I must've out grown this one, surely they're not supposed to strangle you?"

Annetta chuckles and moves to adjust the collar, tugging at the cloth here and there and straightening it out. It eases the tightness a little, but not much. Annetta then brings out the jerkin, also freshly pressed and cleaned, moves to drape it across his shoulders.

"I'm going to cook in all of this," Federico groans, tugging at the front lapels of the jerking. "And I feel like pheasant being prettied for dinner."

"Oh, but you're very pretty indeed, young master," Annetta says amusedly. "For propriety one must suffer. Now, hats," she says and takes one off the rack, a slanted affair with splendid, airy feathers. "I think this one looks very fine with that jerkin, what do you think?"

Federico sighs. "I'll take it back – I'll be a _peacock_ instead," he says. "Why, oh why, can't I just wear a hood like a proper Assassin?"

"Because, my son, you're trying to blend in, not stand out," Giovanni says, stepping into the room – and it is easy for him to say; he _is_ wearing a hood, in fact he's in full Assassin regalia. It's _terribly_ unfair. "You look very fine, Federico," Giovanni says, sounding pleased. "If your mother could see you, she'd have you sitting for painting for hours on end."

"Oh, god forbid," Federico says and sighs as Annetta arranges his hair just so and eases the hat onto his head, artistically slanted so that it's shadow falls onto his right cheek. "This is unbearable," Federico mutters. "I look like an idiot. I look like _Vieri_."

"Vieri de' Pazzi never looked so handsome," Giovanni assures him amusedly and moves forward to adjust his jerkin, asking it's folds so that they fall more elegantly over his left shoulder. "Now, I will be going on ahead – you will wait until ser Desmond arrives and then you will go together. You know what to do, Son."

Federico sighs and then looks down to his right hand. He flicks a wrist – and a blade snicks out of it's hidden sheath at his inner arm. "Yes, Father," he says and retracts the blade with another flick of his wrist. "I am prepared."

Giovanni nods and then takes his face between his warm hands, stroking thumbs down his cheeks, cleanly shaven for the party. "If it comes down to it and you must kill, don't stop and think," he says. "You cannot stop in mid action. Do first and act _quickly_ – stop only when you're safe enough to do it without risking your own life."

Federico draws a breath and nods. "Yes, Father."

"I want you back safe, Federico," Giovanni says. "I will be there but I might be too far away to aid you. Stay close to ser Desmond and watch yourself. Don't take any unnecessary risks."

"Yes, Father."

Giovanni strokes his cheeks and then reaches to press a kiss on his forehead. " _Stay your blade from the blood of an_ innocent," he recites.

" _Hide in plain sight_ ," Federico continues. " _And never compromise the Brotherhood_."

"May your step be light and your blade swift, tonight," Giovanni says. "And may you bring your enemies peace, Assassin."

Federico sways in his father's hold and then is released. Giovanni looks him over once more and then nods seriously. With last squeeze of Federico's shoulder, the Master Assassin in his full regalia turns and leaves. Federico looks after him for a moment and then breathes out slowly.

Assassin, he thinks. Yes. He is an Assassin and tonight he might do an Assassin's work. And he is ready. He _is_ ready.

"It's a big day," Annetta says quietly.

"Bigger than you think," Federico agrees and smiles, turning to her and spreading out his arms. "So, honestly now – how do I look? Ravishing, I hope?"

Annetta considers him, humming. "Well," she says consideringly. "Knowing how badly you want out of those clothes…"

Federico laughs, and it eases the tension some – if not all the way. "Go watch the front, please, Annetta –and tell me when my _tutor_ arrives. I wouldn't want to be late for the party."

Ser Desmond arrives not much after Giovanni had left, in the end – and he too is dressed for the occasion, Federico finds. Desmond's robes, though still of similar design, are of finer material and have less fraying threads as the ones he usually wears – he also has a clean black cloak on, with a deep hood that almost covers the black hood he is already wearing under it. The cloak completely covers whatever gear he is wearing under it – he really looks like a monk. He even has a rosary at his side, shining bright red, which he is lightly grasping in his hand.

"Brother Aquila," Federico greets him, swallowing. Somehow ser Desmond's… nature feels different today – something about his posture has changed. He moves like a monk now, slow and meditative.

"Young master," the other Assassin says and bows his head slowly, almost humbly. "I believe there is a gathering you have been invited to. Are you ready to depart?"

He speaks differently too – he must've practiced. Or maybe as Master Assassin he's simply that good an actor and just hasn't had the cause to use such skills so far. Federico fiddles with the hem of his jerkin awkwardly and lifts his chin – if ser Desmond is putting this sort of effort to it, then he probably should too. "Yes," he says, trying for a young noble's bored affectation. Ugh. "Let's go."

Desmond inclines his head calmly and then waits for him to move ahead – before stepping behind him, slightly to the side, to walk close to his elbow. Like a teacher – or a servant – of a noble. It's a little strange, knowing who the man is, what he is no doubt capable of. To have a Master Assassin acting as a servant… it's a little unnerving.

It's also weirdly, almost _overwhelmingly_ , thrilling.

 _Down, boy,_ Federico thinks to himself with a deep breath, trying to calm his beating heart and frayed nerves, as they step out of the palazzo and towards the carriage waiting for the at the front. They have a mission to do.

Better get to it.


	8. Chapter 8

At first Federico isn't sure how to tackle the party. It's not a very big one all told – the Medici, when they put together a gathering, tend to do it with style, and this one is on the smaller scale of their get-togethers. There is dinner, there is music and there are dozens of people in their finest talking about politics or gossip or some weird mixture of both, and if it wasn't for the imminent threat of attack, it would be dreadfully boring.

And then there is Desmond, keeping pace with Federico with his head bowed and his gloved hands folded into his sleeves. Federico is constantly aware of him – and of the fact that the man is watching his every move. If Federico goes now and acts how he, Ezio and Claudia usually are in parties like these…

Federico might be shameless, but he's not looking to intentionally make an embarrassment out of himself. He has an impression to make – or improve upon.

So he skirts around the edges of discussions, agreeing here and there and then removing himself into another discussion, constantly keeping Lorenzo de' Medici and his brother Giuliano – who, being somewhat sickly still, is confined to sitting down most of the time – within view. Turns out his recalcitrance is not very characteristic, though – because eventually, it's brought into question.

"Federico, I've never seen you be so dull – are you quite alright?"

"Cristina!" Federico exclaims at the sight of her, in a splendid new ball gown, her hair done up beautifully under a feather adorned hat. "Oh, I didn't know you were invited." And really wishes she hadn't been.

"I wasn't – I accompanied a friend who was," she says, smiling and offering her hand. "You seem distracted, are you quite alright?"

Federico thinks quickly, the shadow of silent Desmond in the corner of his eye, and then sighs. "Father has me on a shortest leach he could muster," he admits and takes her hand, kissing her knuckles lightly. "I'm to be on my best possible behaviour or there will be dire consequences. Behold, my terribly strict tutor – and ball at the end of my chain."

"Young master," Desmond objects quietly, with barely smothered amusement in his tone. " _Really_ now."

Cristina giggles. "I am very sorry for you, Brother," she says, curtseying slightly to Desmond. "You have quite the task in your hands."

"I'm sure it can be managed," Desmond says, bowing his head to Cristina slightly, and then looking away, effectively detaching himself from the discussion.

"This place is dreadful without Ezio and Claudia," Federico mutters. "I have no idea how I managed these things before they were old enough to attend."

Cristina chuckles. "I'm sure with better grace and finer manners than you three do these days," she says and links her arm with hers. "Come, walk with me – we shall keep each other entertained."

It's thankfully no effort to keep her within the ballroom they're currently in, and within the view of the Medici – that's where most of the people are, and Cristina isn't exactly looking to pull him aside as it is. Together they walk around the ballroom, greeting friends and making cordial small talk with those that aren't – and carefully avoiding the rest.

Vieri de' Pazzi was, of course, invited and is watching them with narrowed eye from other end of the room – and both Cristina and Federico try and keep the whole of the ballroom in between them, too. Francesco de' Pazzi is there as well, is talking with someone Federico doesn't know too well, one of the lesser nobles from that circle – and there is Baronchelli, embroiled in heated discussion with some women, one of them maybe his wife. Francesco Salviati is there also, though Federico only recognizes the archbishop for his robes, and there is the priest, Father Maffei – Father had pointed the man out earlier in ser Lorenzo's staff…

Lot of the conspirators are in attendance – probably more than he can see here.

"I've never had such a distracted man accompany me," Cristina complains amusedly. "Federico, where has your mind ran off to?"

Federico clears his throat. "I'm sorry, my dear – upholding family honour has completely ruined my mood," he admits. "I am distracted, I'm sorry – it's no reflection upon your company, of course."

Cristina gives him a look, unimpressed. "Upholding family honour? You?" she asks, and arches her brows. "My it is a difficult day for you, isn't it? Your father isn't in attendance then?"

"He couldn't come, no," Federico says with a theatrical sigh and glances around – oh, he's just close enough to Maffei to be over heard, excellent. Maybe the news will spread and the conspirators will grow lax in their caution. "And thus I couldn't refuse and now I'm supposed to be all _proper_. Honestly, I can think of nothing worse." He's not even lying, really.

Cristina laughs. "Well, I can see the Auditore family is in capable hands," she chuckles.

"Yes, well. We must place our hopes in you and Ezio – you can carry out the family name and honour for me," Federico says teasingly, and grins at the fetching blush that brings to her cheeks. "It's pity he isn't here – you'd have him completely beside himself, wearing what you are."

"Federico," Desmond murmurs, half admonishing and half warning and Federico leans away from Cristina, surprised – he hadn't actually expected Desmond to really _act_ like a chaperone. Glancing at the black robed man, he sees Desmond looking elsewhere – towards the end of the ballroom where Lorenzo de' Medici is talking with Gonfaloniere Alberti.

Desmond's eyes are shining amber and his expression is alert.

Federico frowns and then looks to Cristina. "I'm sorry for this, my dear – but can I possibly ask you to leave this party early?" he asks seriously. "Please."

"Federico?" Christina asks, confused, her sharp eyes alert. "What is going on?" she asks in a whisper.

Federico brushes a stray curl from her cheek and pushes her ever so slightly towards the doors. "For Ezio's sake – please leave now."

Her eyes widen, narrow, and then she looks away – but the tone of warning is enough. She nods. "I will have explanation later," she says. "But I will go – I'll claim stomach ache to my friend, and take her with me if I can."

"Thank you," Federico says, watches her go for a brief moment to make sure she really will do as asked, and then turns to Desmond.

"Can you feel it?" Desmond asks, tilting his head slightly towards Federico.

"Feel what?" Federico demands, and then frowns, checking on the conspirators strewn around the room. There is a… shimmer in the air, like the moment before lightning strike, that's making the hair in the back of his neck stand on end.

"They are getting ready to attack," Desmond says. "Lorenzo and Giuliano have made themselves too open for this – the attackers aren't going to wait for the mass. It's going to happen here – just as quick as they can rid of those guards over there," Desmond nods to the door and then glances around. "And we have less people here than they do."

"Shit," Federico mutters. "Father's people?"

"Are scattered around the hall, but well over half of the people in attendance here are enemies, Federico. Can't you feel them?"

Federico swallows. He can't, but… there has been a creeping tension about this since the beginning. He hasn't been able to relax once – maybe this is why. "We need to get closer to the Medici."

Desmond nods and then bows his head – and follows Federico as he sets to casually saunter closer. As they move, Federico checks to see who he recognizes and who he doesn't – he can tell some of the splendidly clothed guests are thieves under their finery, and those women over there have the wear and tear of prostitutes on their faces, carefully hidden under makeup. He knows enough of them to know that they are good fighters – but they aren't assassins. And if the Medici's guards can be distracted – or in worse case _bribed_ to not care for their masters' lives too much…

"Can we take them?" Federico asks.

Desmond doesn't answer – shifting closer to him and pressing something to his hand. "Not as useful without the Vision, but just in case," he says.

It's a smoke bomb.

Federico draws a breath and then eases the thing into his sleeve – with any luck, he wouldn't have to use it.

They can't quite get to the Medici, there's a throng of people around them, of course, and the Gonfaloniere has Lorenzo in an argument now, which is making people lean even closer to overhear. Around them people are shifting around - moving into positions, Federico fears.

The Medici really had made themselves too open, hadn't they, inviting enemies to their home. As many guards as they have, as many friends as they have, it's not going to be much help if Lorenzo goes and stands _right next to_ the damn conspirators. The Gonfaloniere isn't budging from Lorenzo's side and Father Maffei is moving in now as well – Baronchelli on the other side.

Behind Federico, Desmond mutters a curse. "I did this," he mutters bitterly – and then he's gone.

What happens is almost too fast for Federico to make any sense of. There's a flash of a blade, Baronchelli behind Giuliano de' Medici's chair, going for a stab – and then there is a throwing knife, sunken in Baronchelli's meaty neck and the dagger falling from the man's hand. Father Maffei is going for Lorenzo de' Medici with a knife and there is Francesco de' Pazzi, dagger in hand - and then he stops as a black shadow presses behind. Federico doesn't see what happens, but it leaves blood on Francesco's doublet.

Federico grabs his own dagger, and rushes forward, the shock passing - he needs to move, _now_.

The room lapses into chaos. Swords, knives, daggers are being drawn everywhere and the _noise_ of fighting is suddenly overwhelming. There is shouting, people flailing and blades flashing. Federico rushes forward, using his own blade to deflect nearby attackers – he can see blood now, splashing on Lorenzo de' Medici's white cape. Someone got hit. And there is another man going for Giuliano again.

"Kill them, kill them!" someone shouts, it might be Francesco de' Pazzi – and then doors are being blown inward, as more people burst into the already crowded room, guards and killers alike.

There are already bodies on the floor.

Federico's vision is red, overwhelmingly red – but he remembers what his father said and doesn't think. Instead he dashes forward as fast as he can through the throng of people – he thinks he can see Desmond, but the man is a shadow in the crowd, all but invisible. Lorenzo de' Medici is bleeding, he has a sword in his hand and is standing over his brother – Giuliano is slumped over in his chair, coughing, someone got a hit on him as well. There is a shriek of metal as Lorenzo's blade meets with that of another attacker.

Federico moves behind the attacker, and sinks his hidden blade in the man's back, between his ribs.

"Federico," Lorenzo says – and then there is a shadow behind the Medici.

Desmond, with a bloodied sword in one hand and a dagger in other, blood dripping from between his fingers.

For a moment Federico's heart stops. For a moment, the black-clad man hovers over Giuliano and it looks like he's about to take the Medici's head off. It looks like he's going to attack. For a moment, Federico thinks of all the inconsistencies about Desmond, and he doubts.

Then Desmond turns, his sword slashing through air and catching the blade that's being thrust past him – throwing Francesco de' Pazzi off his somewhat clumsy attack and then, as Desmond follows the parry with a kick, off his feet as well. Federico's mouth opens and snaps close – in a brutal, merciless move, Desmond thrusts his sword down, through the collar of Francesco's doublet, right through the neck beside his collarbone – and no doubt straight into his heart.

Francesco de' Pazzi collapses down the moment Desmond's sword comes loose, and then Desmond stands in defence of the Medici, weapons held at ready.

Federico is so distracted, staring at Desmond, that when the attack comes at him he moves to answer it more by sheer instinct than will. His hidden blade screeches against metal, almost throwing _sparks_ as he forcefully guides the offending blade away. It's Vieri de' Pazzi, his face pale with horror and red with fury all at once.

"My father – my _father_ – you sons of bitches –" Vieri snarls, all but frothing in the mouth, and Federico can't, can't think at all.

His body moves as if a puppet on strings. Vieri attacks and Federico blocks, parries, and answers in kind, the movements ingrained into his limbs by years of sparring matches with his father. Parry, distract, attack, again and again until finally there is an opening, Vieri overextending himself.

Like in a dream, Federico thrusts his blade at Vieri's chest – impact which, had Vieri not been wearing some armour under his jerkin, would have gone right into his torso. It's enough to knock Vieri back, force the air out of his lungs, probably hurt like hell too – it's enough to distract him. There is an opening – and without thinking at all Federico takes it.

It's… it's almost too easy. Years of animosity and fights on streets of Florence, of watching Vieri and Ezio bark at each other like angry dogs – years of feeling a sort of amusement over this man's mere existence and ridiculous antics. Years of knowing Vieri – and now the tip of Federico's dagger slashes across his throat like it's nothing, leaving behind a gaping slash and a gust of blood.

Just like that and Federico knows; Vieri is going to die. It will take him moment, a man doesn't bleed to death instantly, but he will. Federico has cut his throat open, and Vieri de' Pazzi would _die_. Federico has killed him – all that is left is for death to catch up.

"Federico!" someone snaps – and Federico moves away, leaving Vieri to stumble back, to realise his fate, to die. Is it Desmond? No, it's Father – Father is there, in white and red with sword in his hand, he and someone else, is it La Volpe? Yes, maybe – they are levering Giuliano de' Medici off his chair and towards the wall behind them – it is open, there is a secret door. Lorenzo is already being ushered through it.

Then there is a hand at his wrist – it grips hard, hard enough for Federico to realise he'd almost dropped his weapon. He jostles to an attack, but – he knows this feeling. It's familiar and safe.

"Federico, can you fight?" Desmond asks, his sword held horizontal before them, ready to block and defend.

The hall is covered in fighting now, guards and guests, attackers and defenders all going at it. Father looks at them over his white-clad shoulder, his expression conflicted – he is getting Giuliano to safety, pushing him through the hidden door. Federico knows he could follow, if he ran he could make it through those doors and to safety. Judging by the look of him, Father would prefer it.

But there is fighting happening here, and someone needs to make sure the Medici aren't being followed. The door needs to be defended until they're through – and already there are people making for it.

There is a croak behind him and somehow, somehow Federico knows – Vieri de' Pazzi is no longer any sort of threat.

"I can fight," Federico says and grips his dagger tighter. It's a good weapon, but it's not his preferred one – he's better with some range. "I need a sword."

Without word Desmond hands his own over – and together they move to the door, just in time to meet a man in nobleman's splendour and a bloody sword in hand – _red_ , Federico thinks, and meets him with Desmond's sword.

"Go," Desmond says quickly to the closing door. "We'll cover you."

" _Federico_ ," Giovanni says urgently.

"Go," Federico says, knocks the attacker's sword aside and thrusts his blade through the man's neck. The splash of blood against Desmond's blade burns into his eyes and Federico gasps for a breath – don't think, _don't_ think. He pulls the sword out and the attacker collapses to the floor.

Behind them, the door closes with a resounding _clank_ – locking from the other side.

"We only have to guard the door for long enough for them to go and then we can run," Desmond says, meeting another attacker with a dagger in his left hand, and a hidden blade flashing by his right. "Stay focused, Federico."

"Yes," Federico says, wishing desperately that he had some proper armour. Nothing to it now – all he needs is to avoid getting hit – and endure, if he is.

Desmond is a deathly shadow beside him – and eventually, slightly ahead of him. Federico has hardly any time to actually look at the man's fighting, but he can see him constantly on the corner of his eyes, taking, two, three, even four attackers all at once, twisting his body to parry and block with his dagger and thrusting his hidden blade into every opening he can reach. Already, they're surrounded by bodies, already Federico is close to slipping in the blood and limbs strewn about the floor – already this seems like glimpse of hell. Or a war zone.

Looking at the hall, covered in blood and death, it _is_ war zone.

Somewhere, there is a bell ringing, calling for aid - but to whom? To the Medici or the Pazzi? The flood of people seems endless, there are more people coming in constantly. Federico's elbow joint hurts, his wrist is aching – he can tell his swings are slowing down, he's tiring. He is tiring, and the enemies aren't stopping.

A man can fight at his strongest for minute or two maybe, perhaps three at most, according to Father and Uncle Mario. After that, the strain will start getting worse and worse, he will grow slower and clumsier as his strength wears out. Even the strongest man can't fight at his best endlessly – they're all cursed with limited bodies. That is why every killing blow counts – the shorter you can cut a fight, the better.

But if you are against superior numbers...

"Federico, we're done. Get ready," Desmond says, his hidden blade snapping back to its sheath – he has a smoke bomb in hand. Federico glances at him and then nods, drawing a breath and then holding it in.

There is a flash, _crack_ and then they're all covered in noxious smoke.

Desmond's hand at his elbow moves to guide him – but Federico can _see_. People are shades of red in the smoke, red and hint of blue in distance – and Desmond is a radiant golden shade at his side, almost blinding in the smoke. "Go, go," the man says, and Federico thrusts his sword under his belt. Together, they run.

Palazzo Medici, normally so spacious and grandiose, seems like a crowded maze now, positively crawling with people, most of them red. Desmond rushes at them slightly ahead of Federico, and downs them without a pause as they run, taking wild turns left and right as they search for an exit. There is constant feeling of people following them, chasing them – knowing, where they are.

Federico's awareness _blooms_ out in an almost pained flash and he knows, somehow, that the palazzo is surrounded by enemies – soldiers in the streets, waiting to attack anyone who might get out. Enemies inside, and enemies outside – they won't be able to escape intact, not easily.

They're in a hall – and he knows this hall. He's been here before, during another ball, Ezio and Claudia were there too – as was this lovely noble lady whose name Federico has since completely forgotten. He remembers what he did with her, though – and where.

"Desmond!" Federico shouts and as Desmond looks back, he takes out the smoke bomb. Desmond stops just as Federico throws it – and when Federico reaches to tug at his sleeve, Desmond follows.

Together, they tumble into a closet, Federico pulling the doors shut behind them.

It feels as if his heart will explode out of his chest, it's beating so fast. Desmond's breath is ragged against his cheek, and Federico can _feel_ the way the man is straining to be quiet. Outside, people are running and shouting, clatter and shrieks of metal as they pull out their swords or put them away. "Find the Assassins!" someone shouts, "find them!" and then more running – their steps leading right past the closet, and past them.

Federico lets himself finally gasp for air, bowing his head and drawing shaky, ragged breaths against Desmond's shoulder. It's more crowded in the closet than he remembers it having been – but then, he'd been much younger back then, not quite so tall or wide across the shoulders, and Desmond is a tall man in full armour under his robes, he takes a lot of space. They're all but plastered against each other, which is something Federico should really be appreciating more but –

Lord, he can barely breathe. His mind is fuzzy, as if someone had stuffed it full of autumn leaves crinkling and rustling, and his heart is doing it's best to break his ribs. He can't breathe – he can't –

He can still see Vieri's expression, fury draining to horror as his throat is slashed open.

"Federico," Desmond whispers.

"Gi-give me a moment," Federico begs, trying to wipe at his eyes – but he's still holding a dagger, he hadn't realised, and goes to drop it. Desmond catches his wrist before he can, taking the dagger gently before it can fall. It makes Federico sway slightly, god, what was he thinking, the noise it would have made – he's so shaky, was he this shaky before?

Outside, people are still running, still fighting. How many have died already, how many of Paola's courtesans and La Volpe's thieves? Did he know them by name, were they friends, did he…

Lord, he _killed_ Vieri.

"Shh," Desmond whispers, his voice so close, his breath against his skin, and Federico realise distantly that he made a noise, maybe a keen or a sob, he's not sure. "Federico, you need to stay _quiet_."

"I'm _trying_ ," Federico gasps and then bows his head, gritting his teeth and trying to shut his stupid mouth up, keep the noises welling in his throat inside. The shaking doesn't stop, though, he's trembling all over now. Why is he so damn shaky?

Desmond is still for a moment and then there's a hand, tentative, on Federico's elbow. Moment later it moves around his back, pressing between his shoulder blades, and pulling him in and to the man's chest – it's barely a move, they're already pressed against each other, but now Desmond is taking his weight too, pulling him in – keeping him upright.

"I'm sorry," Federico gasps. "Fuck – I don't know – I'm sorry."

"Your first kill?" Desmond asks quietly.

Federico can't muster the breath to answer and just nods.

"I understand," Desmond says. "It's alright. I got you. Just – be quiet."

Federico nods shakily, and with that permission breaks apart against Desmond's chest, smothering his gasps against the man's black robes. Desmond says nothing to it, just wraps his arms tighter around Federico, smothering what little noises he's making, and holding him together.

Time becomes a fractured, distant thing in that dark, enclosed space against Desmond – it might take a minute or an hour before Federico starts feeling more stable again. It still feels like he can smell and feel Vieri's blood in his hands, dripping down the blade he's not holding – God, there had been other people too, he'd killed at least four, maybe five of the attackers, why is it just Vieri's death that is in his mind now? Every time Federico closes his eyes, he can see it. Vieri's stupid face, that ridiculous hat, that expression, the blood, the wound – the inescapable knowledge that he'd killed Vieri, even before the man had realised it himself.

But the shaking eventually stops and under Desmond's hand, running up and down along his back, Federico's gasping ceases. He still feels shaken, but his knees eventually stop feeling like they can't support him anymore.

"I'm sorry," Federico murmurs.

"It's okay," Desmond answers quietly, clasping a gloved hand against the back of his head. "Take your time."

"It shouldn't affect me like this," Federico mutters bitterly. "I'm an _Assassin_."

"If it didn't, you'd be a psychopath," Desmond says with a mirthless chuckle and pushes him back a little. By now both their eyes are adjusted to the dark and Federico can just barely tell his features apart. "You're not a monster, Federico."

Federico shakes his head – he doesn't know what a psychopath is, but it's probably not good. "Did – did you…" he starts to ask but doesn't dare to.

"Break down after my first kill?" Desmond asks and sighs. "It's not the same."

Federico frowns. "Why not?"

"I got conditioned to think of it differently," Desmond admits quietly. "By the time I killed for first time, I couldn't really see enemies as people. It's… fucked up and not how you want to deal with this. I wish I'd felt like you, that I'd broken down too."

Federico shudders and bows his head. He… doesn't know what to say to that. "I feel – so damn weak," he admits bitterly.

"Good," Desmond says firmly. "Trust me – that's _good_."

Shaking his head Federico lets out a muffled snort – it doesn't _feel_ good right now. _Fuck_ , he thinks and runs a hand through his hair – his hat is gone now, fallen somewhere along the way. He still feels terrible – hot and stuffy and constrained. So, with shaking fingers he undoes the clasps of his jerkin and hurriedly shrugs it off before ripping the front of his doublet open – oh, thank god, he thinks, and leans his head back to draw a deep, grateful breath.

Desmond's swallow is audible enough in Federico's ear to make him pause in mid a motion – and then it all crashes down.

They're in a closet together, pressed against each other – and for last undetermined amount of time Desmond has been embracing him.

And Federico _completely missed it_ because he was busy having a breakdown over _Vieri_!

Federico's eyes widen and suddenly he is intensely aware of every point of contact between them. One of his feet is between Desmond's legs, his knee brushing against the man's greaves – they are pressed together from hip to stomach, no longer at the chest because Federico leaned back. One of Desmond's hands is still at his back – it drops like stone now, and Desmond leans back a little, looking – _oh_ –

"Ser _Desmond_ ," Federico breathes, and a bolt of _desire_ runs through him, sudden and powerful, at the astonished look the Master Assassin gives him.

"Federico –" Desmond starts to say, before his voice chokes out as Federico presses him against the back of the closet.

He's probably not thinking straight – no, he isn't, he _know_ he isn't, because there's still enough reason in his head for him to realise what a colossally terrible idea this is, but at the same time, he doesn't care. His nerves are frayed to their last thread and his body is _thrumming_ with anxious energy and it's like there's suddenly flash of sun shining through storm clouds and it's _glorious_.

Desmond is warm and _right there_ , and Federico doesn't think at all – just presses in, and claims a hungry kiss from his scarred lips. It's not the most elegant kiss he's ever claimed, nor the kindest, and there is a voice in the back of his head, terrified.

Desmond had looked at him, yes, he was interested – but sometimes interested men are the least receptive, and no one shouts accusations quite as loud as the one guilty of the crime himself. So many sodomites got hung at word of ashamed, guilty lovers, trying to hide their own crimes. Desmond is an Assassin and an ally – but he wears the robes of a monk and the risk is _great_ but oh…

He feels _incredible,_ the stiffness of his body, hard with armour and weapons and muscle, compared to the softness of his lips, how their _yield_ under Federico's… Desmond _sounds_ delicious too, the quiet gasp he draws against Federico, the drag of air against his skin, the faint noise of fabric as he presses back, all of it. Desmond is taller, Federico has to lean up to it, craning his head back – it angles him almost straight into the dip between Desmond's long legs.

Federico's fingers are seeking way under the man's robes before he can think twice – and then there are Desmond's hands grabbing his wrists, pushing them back, pushing _him_ back.

Federico almost moans in disappointment as their lips detach – the sound is smothered against leather as Desmond presses a palm hard over his mouth and jaw, silencing him.

Desire very quickly gives away into panic as their eyes meet, and Desmond looks _horrified_.

"I – I'm sorry," Federico says, or tries to, but it only comes out as muffled exhalation of hair and Desmond's finger clench against his jaw, stiff and hard. In the crowded space of the closet they can't push far away from each other, contact still remains, but Federico backs away as much as he can, as his heart sinks somewhere to the level of his feet and below.

And Desmond isn't _saying_ anything, just staring at him with this look of shock on his face, like Federico had just hit him, or done something infinitely worse. He thinks he might have. Oh god, he definitely might have.

Desmond looks away, to the doors of the closet, his eyes flashing amber. Federico follows his gaze and feels, sees, _somehow_ knows that there's no one in the corridor outside. The coast is clear now – the palazzo has emptied, and though there are still enemies on the streets, they aren't as numerous as before. It's now safe to sneak out and leave.

Slowly, Desmond releases Federico's jaw, letting him draw breath and speak unhindered by the hand, but Federico can't think of what to say. Desmond hasn't hit him or stabbed him yet, but it might be coming later, something worse might follow – fuck, why did he _do that_?

"I'm sorry," Federico whispers. "Christ, I'm _sorry_. I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry."

"Adrenaline," Desmond says, nonsensical. The confusion must show on Federico's face because Desmond sighs. "Excitement after mortal danger – it does funny things to your head, makes you do weird things," he mutters. "Don't… worry about it."

Federico opens his mouth and then snaps it shut. Because – what? What? _No_. "I've wanted to kiss you before," he blurts out. "For days now."

Desmond blinks and turns to him, frowning.

Shit – that was his out, wasn't it? That was his escape from this disaster and he blew it.

Oh, _fuck_ it.

"I want you," Federico says and then, emboldened the way Desmond's lips part in silent exhalation, he pushes closer. "I have been utterly distracted by you from the moment I saw you, and I have desired you for nearly as long. It's not this moment – it's been _every_ moment I have spent with you. You are stunning and mysterious and dangerous and by lord, I _want you_."

" _Federico_ ," Desmond objects, faint and almost alarmed and backs away once more, to the back of the closet.

"Ser Desmond, I _desire_ you," Federico breathes, grinning, and presses against him again. "You are an enigma and I wish to solve you, unearth your mysteries and explore their each twist and turn. Strip you bare and know every facet and feature and then, oh, then," he takes Desmond's hand and despite the man's half-hearted struggle, presses it to his chest, inside his now open doublet, to his skin. "Then do it all over again."

Desmond's eyes are wide and dark, the Eagle Vision gone. His breath shudders and his fingers twitch on Federico's chest – Federico mourns the gloves, he wants to feel the man's touch skin on skin. Curious, he trails his own fingers down Desmond's hand, over the leather into his sleeve…

" _Damnit_ , Federico," Desmond breathes. "You're –" he starts to say and then looks down, shaking his head. He seems bewildered and his hand on Federico's chest twitches and turns, shifting more under the lapel of Federico's doublet – the leather clad tips of his fingers catching one by one on Federico's nipple, sending delicious shocks through his body.

Federico arches eagerly into the touch. " _Yes_ ," he sighs, his fingers twining around Desmond's wrist, pulling, inviting a firmer touch, inviting _anything_ Desmond might want to do. "Kiss me," he demands, pressing closer, the fingers of his free hand seeking way into Desmond's robes again.

Desmond stares at his chest, at his own hand on Federico's skin and then shakes his head again. "Jesus _Christ_ ," he mutters and for a confused moment Federico wonders if he's actually going to start _praying_ – but then Desmond hauls him into a desperate kiss.

It's sudden and firm and _ravenous_ and over all too soon.

"No," Desmond says then determinedly and pushes him away without mercy. "We're getting out of here, now."

Federico sways towards him, his head light. "But – "

" _Now_ ," Desmond says, and pushes him out of the closet, hard enough that Federico almost stumbles. Federico yelps out with alarm and utterly unsympathetic, Desmond steps out after him. "Run," he orders.

Cursing bitterly, Federico turns and runs.


	9. Chapter 9

The Auditore Palazzo is overtaken by enemies. Federico and Desmond look on them from above as they rummage their way through the courtyard and bust into the building, rummaging through the rooms – searching, no doubt, for anything and everything they can use either to capture them or use as evidence against them.

Already the word on the street conflicts itself. One herald shouts to the night about the assassination attempt on the Medici by the Pazzi; on another street the herald proclaims that the Medici committed the assassination and it was the Pazzi who were the target. With the Medici underground, the Pazzi dead or disarray and most of the people in the party wounded or dying, there's little clarity to be found in word-of-mouth.

And Federico can't find his father.

"They wouldn't have come here, not since Rodrigo knows about Giovanni," Desmond says quietly. "It's the first place they'd look. Giovanni wouldn't have brought Lorenzo and Giuliano here."

"Yes," Federico says grimly as on the second floor a soldier throws a window open, almost shattering it. "But where did they go then? They weren't at the Palazzo."

Desmond doesn't answer, looking away. "No, they weren't," he says and then looks at Federico. "How do you know that?"

Federico frowns, wincing as something inside shatters – it sounds like glass. His hands still shake a little at the thought of Vieri and the blood in his hand – but still… he rather wishes to drop down and get these bastards out of his _home_. He'd always known that one day there'd be chance of something like this happening – it's not even the first time their house has been searched but… it feels like violation. Violation he's having hard time bearing.

"I – it didn't feel right," Federico says and rubs his fingers over his eyes. "Something happened there, I… I don't know. Everything was red and… I just knew."

His head still feels like it's full of rustling leaves, though it has eased somewhat since they got out of the Medici Palazzo. Still, the echo of the feeling rattles in his head – it feels like his mind is suddenly too much for his skull to contain.

Desmond eyes him silently from under his hood for a moment and then closes his eyes. When he opens them, amber has bled throughout his irises, and they almost gleam in the faint light of the moon. "Federico," he says. "Close your eyes and concentrate."

Federico looks at him through his fingers and then his eyes widen. "No," he says incredulously. "Did I –?"

"Close your eyes – and concentrate," Desmond says again, watching him. "Look - not with your eyes but with… something else. I think you know what it feels like now."

Letting out an exhale, Federico bows his head and lets his eyes fall shut. It's there, that… _feeling_ , like buzzing behind his eyes. Something changes, something _shifts_ and he knows, if he opens his eyes, he will see world in hues of grey, with people painted in shades of _enemy_ and _ally_ and…

"I didn't think it'd feel like this," Federico murmurs, and carefully peeks his eyes open. Desmond's features are bathed in golden glow now. "You said it isn't _vision_ , though."

"It isn't – it's just how it works on people, because vision is strongest human sense, and that's just easiest way our brains can translate it," Desmond says, peering at his eyes intently. "The more you use it, the less tied to actual physical senses it becomes, though – as you get used to it you start _sensing_ things beyond their range. Can you tell how many enemies there are in the house?"

Federico blinks and looks down. It's as if he can suddenly see through walls – it's blurry, but there is a sensation of the people below, as they walk about the house, checking rooms, rummaging through closets. "Fourteen," he says.

"Good," Desmond says. "Now, do you know where your father is?"

Federico frowns at that – how on earth would he know _that_ – except he does know. It's like a distant light somewhere just outside his field of vision, a glow of some indescribable sense that's telling him, _this way_. "I – how?" Federico demands, shocked. "How the _hell_ –?"

"He's your father, that importance marks him in your senses," Desmond shrugs and stands up. "The stronger the importance, the easier it is to follow. If you concentrate now, you could probably track down the rest of your family too."

"I don't – I thought it was…" Federico trails away and then shakes his head. It's obvious he knows very little about how this ability works. Maybe none of them know it, really – even Ezio has never mentioned this. Maybe Ezio doesn't know either, hasn't ever utilised it fully – like an Assassin.  "Huh."

Desmond nods and turns away. "Let's go find your father."

Federico's mind is still reeling with the realisation that he has somehow, finally and somehow without intention developed the Sight, as he and Desmond race over the rooftops. In the streets the fighting is winding down somewhat – with the leadership on both side either dead or otherwise beyond giving orders, the soldiers of Medici and Pazzi are slowly standing down. The mercenaries, on other hand, aren't – as Federico leads Desmond from one rooftop to another, they can see them break into stores, roughing up people and generally causing trouble.

The city is going to be a complete mess, come morning, if things are left in this state.

It rather puts a damper on what little good mood Federico has left from the party – or rather it's lovely if brief aftermath in the closet. Desmond hasn't said anything more about it after all but pushing him out of Medici palazzo, and now that they're out and about, Federico doesn't know what to say either. It's almost a relief that there's no time for it.

He doesn't think he's pushed Desmond to the point of revulsion, though. The man can still look at him, at least, even if his expression draws tight and weird when he does.

"There," Federico murmurs, as they stop on the corner of a rooftop, Desmond coming to a halt beside him and crouching down for balance. "That house, over  there."

It's nothing remarkable – a small two story affair with it's rooftop connected with what looks like a small bank office. The bank looks a little rundown, it definitely doesn't seem to be a Medici bank, those are always well maintained – but somehow Federico knows his father is there, inside the building.

"It's a hideout, I think," Federico says and looks at Desmond.

Desmond looks around them, his eyes shining. "I think it's clear," he says. "I don't sense any guards."

"Me neither," Federico murmurs and rubs at his eyes again – they feel _strange_. Almost as if he's spend prolonged time looking at something cross eyed. Or maybe like he's stared at sun for too long. "If this isn't physical, why do my eyes hurt?"

"Because human brains are stupid," Desmond sighs. "And yours is trying to make your eyes do things they aren't actually capable of doing. It stops feeling like you're straining after few weeks."

Federico frowns. "But why does – why does your eye colour change?"

Desmond looks at him. "It doesn't," he says slowly.

"But – yes it does," Federico says and blinks his eyes open. "Your and Ezio's eyes both change in colour when you use the Sight, the Eagle Vision. Don't mine do that?"

Desmond tilts his head. "Yes… but it's only visible to people _with_ the Eagle Vision," he says and then tilts his head thoughtfully. "And maybe those close to developing it. Nothing about our eyes actually changes physically – it's all in our heads. Including the colour."

Federico blinks at him. "But –" he starts to say and then frowns. "Oh."

Desmond inclines his head and then looks away, to the building where Giovanni Auditore – and the Medici, Federico hopes – are hiding in. "I think you should join your father, report what happened," he says. "Let him know you're alright – he's gotta be worried."

"You have to come with me," Federico says quickly.

Desmond shifts where he's crouching awkwardly, looking away. "Federico –"

"You need to report too; they will want to know what happened – and you probably saw more than me. Who lived, who died, who got injured and how – who were part of the attack… I couldn't see everything," Federico says and shifts closer. Desmond leans away from him, giving him a wary look. "Please," Federico says, and backs away again.

He can't let Desmond skulk back into the shadows before they've settled things, he _can't_. With his luck, he wouldn't see Desmond for days and who knows what would happen in that time. And Desmond kissed him – Federico did it first and he was probably all too forward about it, but Desmond kissed him _too_. And by God, Federico wants him to do that again, and soon – just as soon as they settle everything else.

And that won't happen if the man slips away now and just disappears.

Desmond is obviously thinking about it too, looking away uncomfortably, as if searching for escape routes. Then he looks down to the street and sighs. "Fine," he says. "Let's go."

Letting a relieved breath, Federico waits until Desmond has hoisted himself down the rooftop's edge, and then follows him down – together they drop to the street. While Desmond keeps watch, Federico goes to the door, and knocks.

It takes a moment – and no doubt someone sneaking a peek through a hole in a window or a wall – before they're let in. As soon as Federico steps in, he finds himself in his father's tight embrace, Giovanni Auditore letting out a relieved sigh of, "Oh thank God, you're alright."

"Hello Father," Federico answers and then folds into his father's arms while behind them, Desmond closes the door quietly. "Nothing to worry – not a scratch on me."

"Thank God, _thank God_ ," Giovanni whispers and then pushes him back to check him over, running arms over Federico's shoulders and then clasping his face between his hands. "Not a scratch?" he demands.

"Not a single scratch," Federico promises and is hugged again, briefly but tightly.

"And you, Ser Desmond – did you come out unscathed?" Giovanni then asks.

"Yes – what about the Medici?" Desmond asks. "I saw both take hits."

"It was touch and go with Giuliano, but we managed to stop the bleeding before he weakened too much – Lorenzo was hit, yes, but it wasn't serious," Giovanni says and leads them away from the front doors and deeper into the building – the hideout. There are thieves there, and couple of prostitutes – some of whom Federico knows. They're all grim faced, few are actually in tears.

They must have lost friends in the attack.

"What is going on out there?" Giovanni asks. "We have some news, but nothing we dare to trust – what happened at the Palazzo after we sealed the door?"

Federico takes breath. He's not sure now how much his father had seen – had he killed Vieri before or after the Medici had retreated? It all blurs into mess of shades and blood and horror in his head.

"Francesco de' Pazzi is dead, and so is Vieri," Desmond says. "I saw Bagnone on the floor, bleeding, but couldn't tell if it was mortal or not. Baronchelli was badly injured, though, his stomach was cut open so I doubt he will survive the night if he isn't dead already – father Maffei got away, I think, and so did Uberto Alberti."

Federico looks to him while Giovanni nods grimly. "And Uberto would be the one promoting the rumours about Medici ambushing the Pazzi."

"Probably," Desmond agrees and shrugs off the outer cloak he's wearing, throwing it to a clothing rack as they pass it by. Under it, his robes are modified to his usual style – with slanted hem slit open for ease of movement, with full armour on top of it. "Though it could be Rodrigo too, there's good chance he's in the city – they wouldn't have moved in on the Medici without his say so."

"Our palazzo was covered in people – that's where we went first," Federico says quietly. "They're searching through the house."

"Hm," Giovanni hums in answer, frowning. "Well it was bound to happen. They shouldn't be able to find anything – which begs the question, how is it that you found us here?" he asks, looking between them. "This place isn't known – La Volpe only just recently secured it for his guild's use."

Federico clears his throat and glances at Desmond, who makes a sort of _it's your business_ gesture. "I, uh… I developed the Gift, Father," Federico says. "And with it I can track you."

Giovanni stares at him, and Federico sees the moment that information actually settles in – how his eyes widen, surprised and then delighted. "The Sight – you, you have it? When?" he demands and then takes Federico's face between his hands again, peering at his eyes. " _How_?" he asks with a disbelieving laugh and then looks to Desmond. "Did you –"

"I gave a few tips," Desmond shrugs and looks at Federico inscrutably. "But Federico's been on the verge for a while now, so it didn't take much."

Federico squirms a little. He has a feeling how keen he'd been looking at and for Desmond in the shadows,  that might have had something to do with the timing. He clears his throat. "It just happened in middle of the fight," he admits. "Ser Desmond told me I could use it to find you, and… I did."

Giovanni shakes his head, amazed, and clasps his hands on Federico's shoulders proudly. "We will talk more about this later," he promises. "I want to hear all about it – but for now, the Medici need to know what is happening in the city. Come this way, both of you."

He then leads them through the corridor, up a set of creaking wooden stairs and to the upper floor. There a masked doctor is treating Lorenzo de Medici's injuries while Giuliano lies on a blood stained bed, unconscious and already wrapped in bandages. It almost looks like someone nearly succeeded in taking his head off.

"Giovanni," Lorenzo de Medici says, looking up from the doctor's work. "Young Federico – what is the news?"

While Giovanni relays what Federico and Desmond had told him, Desmond moves to the window to check the street outside and Federico runs a hand over his neck. He still feels shaky somewhere in his core, but now that things are settling down and his father is there, safe and sound… it all comes back in fits and bursts.

Vieri's death, the blood, the fight – the feel of Desmond as he pressed the man against the back of the closet, right there and there, in middle of mortal peril while they were trying to make their escape. It had been lovely but, good god, what had he been thinking?

There is a stiffness to Desmond's shoulders now that wasn't there before – a slant to his eyes and angle to his head. He's not so uncomfortable as to fear facing Federico, that much is proven already, but he seems…

Ashamed.

"The situation will fast get out of hand should we let it develop like this," Lorenzo mutters. "We must stop the rumours from spreading – and deal with the Gonfaloniere before he can do more damage. Giovanni – can I trust you with this?"

Giovanni draws a breath and Federico looks up, alarmed. Lorenzo is asking his father to go and perform assassination _now_?

"Yes," Giovanni says then. "You can count on me, your Excellency."

"Thank you," Lorenzo says and then winces at something the doctor is doing. Shaking his head at the doctor who pauses in concern, he turns to look at Federico – and then at Desmond. "I understand you are the one to thank for all of this," Lorenzo says. "The warning originated from you."

"Yes," Desmond answers and faces the man.

"Thank you," Lorenzo says again and bows his head. "Though I'd wish you'd brought us better news, I appreciate the warning – and your actions at the palazzo. You have done me and my family a great service – if there is anything I can do to repay it…"

Desmond doesn't answer immediately, clasping his left wrist in his right hand. "Giovanni told me you have in your possession a page of a codex, written in Arabic," he says. "I would like to have it."

"Is that all?" Lorenzo asks, watching him. "According to Giovanni you have no proper place to stay here. I own many buildings and estates across Florence, and I have given more for a lesser service. You have potentially saved my family's lives. Surely, mere piece of paper is little in comparison."

Desmond bows his head at that. "I have no interest in being tied to the politics of Florence," he says. "Or to the service of your family. The codex page will do fine."

Lorenzo frowns at that, glancing at Giovanni who shakes his head subtly. "I see," he says and leans back a little as the doctor finished his work and goes to bandage his wounds. "A monetary reward then – I would hate for it to ever be known that my family does not pay its dues."

Desmond draws a breath at that and then nods. "If you have to," he says. "I won't say no to it."

"Then it is settled," Lorenzo says and lifts his arms a little to let the doctor wrap the bandage around his torso, wincing a little as he does. "Though you must forgive me, it will take a while to access the funds. Can't quite operate freely with the city in turmoil," he says and casts a look at Federico's father.

"We will deal with it," Giovanni promises and looks to Federico. "Son, I can trust you to go around and handle the heralds?"

"Yes, Father," Federico nods. "But what about our home?" he asks tentatively – and in his mind a thought plays out, _what if we hadn't send the others away_?

He casts a glance at Desmond, who is looking away. He'd known, somehow. He'd known the consequences would reach Palazzo Auditore – and had Father not acted on Desmond's warning, they might have found Mother, Ezio, Claudia, _Petruccio_ , all defenceless and easy to capture… or kill.

"They will search it until they're satisfied that it's empty and then they will wait for us in ambush for as long as they can – or are paid for it," Giovanni says and shakes his head. "Once we've dealt with Uberto Alberti and the herald's have been turned to other matters, things should quiet down. For now, this will be our headquarters.

"Yes, Father."

Giovanni nods and then looks to Desmond. "And what of you, ser Desmond? Can we rely on your aid in bringing peace to the city?"

Desmond hesitates. "I'll help for tonight," he says then and nods.

Shiver runs up Federico's spine at the strange finality of the word, _tonight_. As if by morning… he no longer would aid them. Alarmed, Federico turns to Desmond and tries to catch his eye, but Desmond refuses to look at him – eying Giovanni instead.

Giovanni nods slowly. "We still have things to discuss, I hope," he says, glancing at Lorenzo, then Federico and then looking back to Desmond. "We will meet here at dawn, and see what the situation has developed to."

Desmond nods and then turns on his heel. "Morning, then," he says and then he's out of the door, just like that.

Federico throws his father a quickly look, trying to convey apology and explanation all at once and probably failing badly – and then he rushes after Desmond before the man can run off. Desmond is already down the stairs and half way through to the door before Federico catches him, grabbing a hold of his arm and stopping him. Around the, everyone stop in their acts of cleaning themselves or tending to their own injuries as thieves and whores alike turn to look at the two Assassins.

One wrong word, and they'd be making a _scene_ , and judging by Desmond's behaviour, it's the last thing he wants.

"Please," is all Federico says, trying to convey everything all the while revealing nothing in that single word. There's so much to talk about, apologies and explanations and demands and _potential pleasure_ and as their eyes meet, Federico tries to convey it all. _Please, can't we_ talk _before you run away?_

Desmond's arm is tight and tense under his hand, but he makes no move to tear himself free of Federico's touch. His eyes narrow and his cheek flexes as he grits his teeth and then he turns away. "Fine," he says. "Come on."

Without hesitation Federico follows him out and out of the view of curious allies. Outside Desmond glances around and then leads him into an enclosed space in the inner yard of the building across from them, hidden in the shadows of couple decorative trees and the loose foliage of wines growing on the balconies above. It's almost too dark to see.

It's perfect – and as Desmond turns to face him in those shadows, Federico is once more almost overtaken by the urge to press up to him, back him to that wall just under the wines where they'd be completely covered and kiss him. Shadows have terribly unfair way of making Desmond seem so alluring.

It must show on his face because Desmond eyes him warily, angling his body slightly away.

"I'm not sorry," Federico says quietly. "I'm not sorry and don't you dare be either."

"This really isn't the time for this," Desmond mutters, looking away and grimacing.

"Well, you look like you're going to run away and ignore it, so it will have to be," Federico says and steps closer boldly, despite the way it makes Desmond shift as if to back away. "Please, please don't – don't feel shame. It can't really be a sin to love someone, man or a woman, there is no shame in it."

"I _know_ there isn't," Desmond snaps almost defensively. "What, do you think I'm –" he stops and lets out a breath frustrated. "I'm not ashamed about _that_."

"Then what is it?" Federico asks, now confused. If it's not the shame of wanting a man, then what? "Why do you look at me like you're embarrassed?"

"Because I _am_ – Federico, you're –" and there he stops again, looking even more frustrated, making a helpless sort of motion at him. "You're –"

"I am… ?" Federico asks, leaning in, confused and thrilled all anew. "I am what, too eager, too easy, too forward? I can act demure and coy and shy if that's what you like." Some men like that, though Federico is terrible at it. "I can even act unwilling, if that's something you might –"

"Oh, God, please don't," Desmond almost groans and runs a hand over his face, looking away. "Jesus fucking _Christ_."

Yeah, he's definitely not a man of cloth due to actual faith, not with those swears, Federico thinks wryly and leans in. "Then what?" Federico asks, stepping closer. "You desire me, don't you?" he asks and tilts his head, trying to meet Desmond's eyes under the hood and past the gloved hand. "Don't you? Hm?"

Desmond doesn't answer, squeezing his fingers over the bridge of his nose for a moment and breathing in and out slowly. He doesn't deny it, though, and Federico grins victoriously, leaning in, humming happily.

Desmond stops him with a hand pressed to Federico's partially bare chest, pushing him firmly back. "I need to think about this," he says tightly. "And you pushing the matter is not helping."

Federico grins. "Well, I am trying to persuade you to my way of thinking, so I can't say I'm _trying_ to help," he says, and rests his hand over Desmond's over his chest – who looks down to it with a frown. "I don't know what there _is_ to think about. I want you, you want me – it's _simple_."

"It's really not for me," Desmond mutters and lets out a frustrated huff as Federico eases his fingers between Desmond's gloved ones. "Damn, you're pushy," the Assassin mutters, staring at their hands.

Federico smiles, tilting his head. "I prefer passionate," he says and lifts the gloved hand to press kiss to the back of it – once more lamenting the presence of the gloves. "It's a testament to the wealth of my desire for you. And if my desire was measured in coins, I'd be wealthiest man in Florence."

"Stop _that_ ," Desmond hisses, but there is dusting of red on his cheeks again and his eyes are a little wide.

"Oh, but you're lovely," Federico breathes, imagining how badly he could fluster this man, this _Master Assassin_ , with words alone. He's never had a man so affected by sweet nothings alone. "Lord, how you react, so embarrassed! It's as if no one's treasured you before. Please, _let me_ , I will whisper you sweet secrets and recite you loveliest poetry and bring you the most beautiful flowers and –"

"All evidence to the contrary, I am not actually a teenage girl," Desmond growls at him, but he's so red at the same time that Federico can only grin at him.

"– and know that none of them will hold a candle to your allure," he continues, leaning in, all but leering now.

Desmond grunts embarrassedly and presses a hand over Federico's chin to keep him back, glaring at him over it. "We have work to do," he says, irritated. "Federico, this is _not_ the time for this."

Federico shifts his hand enough to speak. "Then promise me you will not run away," he says, holding both of Desmond's hands now. "Promise me that you will come to me later and we can speak in length and with time and privacy. Promise me you will give me a _chance_ … and I will let you go now."

Desmond looks at him, exasperated and troubled – but he nods. "I promise," he says, his gaze flicking between Federico's eyes. "Whatever happens, I will find you later and we will talk about this then. And until then, you won't… do this. Alright?"

"Yes," Federico says emphatically and presses another kiss to Desmond's hands before letting them go. "I'll be looking forward to it, ser Desmond."

The black-clad Assassin eyes at him warily and then steps back. He looks like he's going to say something else, but then shakes his head and turns. Federico watches as he takes a few running steps and then climbs up a window sill and to the balcony above them – moment later, Desmond has once more disappeared to the rooftops.

Federico takes a breath and waits for the eager beating of his heart to ease. Oh yes, later, he thinks and closes his eyes, smiling. He would have to think of things to say to spin ser Desmond's head and upturn his world – to sweep him off his feet. Federico can barely wait.

Then with a wistful sigh, he too turns away and heads off to do his duty.

* * *

 

The night passes slow and fast all at once. Whatever Desmond does in the shadows, Federico doesn't know, but it seems to help ease the turmoil in the major streets somewhat – the fighting on the streets eventually winds to an end. In the meanwhile Federico goes around carefully avoiding Pazzi soldiers and approaching the city's many heralds with a purse in hand – it is now much lighter after all the bribing he's had to do.

It takes effort, but by morning the message of the Medici arranging an ambush for the Pazzi withers away, and all the heralds of the city take up the message of the Pazzi Conspiracy instead, with enough truth and mystery to their tales to spread the message wider. It's somewhat dirty work, all things considered – both messages held a seed of truth in them, after all. Pazzi had planned an assassination – and the Medici had planned an ambush.

Now, the victor chooses which story would be told.

But such is the work of an Assassin – history will not tell the truth about them either, and probably never has. They choose the stories that would live on and as seems to be the tradition… the Assassin involvement would be covered, as per usual.

Sadly, it's harder to cover the _Auditore_ involvement. Federico's defence of the Medici had been pretty public – and everyone loves a hero. Federico probably would have loved it too, had it been a week or two ago. He would have basked on that fame and then used it in every way he could to vie for lovelier attentions…

Now, listening to the heroic story of Ser Federico and how he risked his life to defend the Medici from terrible assassination attempt just makes him feel awkward and uneasy. Vieri's death doesn't feel heroic, and the idea of using any of what happened for fame or glory… no.

He ends up shelling out extra coin to keep heralds from mentioning his name so much – and to not speak of the monk who was with him at all. Desmond, he thinks, would prefer it that way.

Thankfully by morning, the heralds have a new story to add to the already complicated tale of the conspiracy – both Bernando Bandini dei Baronchelli and the Gonfaloniere Uberto Alberti had died that night to the injuries they'd endured during the attack. Those news are quickly followed by rumours of evidence about the Gonfaloniere's involvement with the Conspiracy, and so the story expands and gains new traction.

Federico listens in on few more heralds as the sky starts to lighten and then retreats back to the shadows and eventually towards the hideout. The fighting is over now, the Pazzi soldiers foundering with their leadership cut down and now with the Gonfaloniere dead as well, they don't know what to do – so they are running or just laying down their arms.

The city belongs to the Medici, once more.


	10. Chapter 10

The morning finds the city no longer in turmoil, and though the shock has people whispering and hollering both on the streets of Florence, life returns to normal faster than Federico would have assumed. Some of the most well known nobles and officials of the city are dead due to a failed assassination attempt – and people still need to go to the market and fetch the water and go about their daily lives, business as usual.

It's almost fascinating how fast people also turn to say, "I knew something was about," and "There was a foul feeling about those Pazzi, always up to something," and so on. The Medici, in while, are both praised for their survival and lamented for the damage done – many prayers would be sent their ways in the days to come. Aside from that…

Life continues.

"As it must," Giovanni says with a sigh, as they go around the Palazzo Auditore, checking the damage. Some of the more valuable things are gone – Mother's and Claudia's jewellery, some of the paintings in the sitting-room, couple of Father's swords from his office displays… Nothing unexpected though. Couple of windows have been broken for which Giovanni has already called for a workman, and the whole house is of course a mess – it's nothing irreversible though.

The soldiers hadn't gotten into the secret rooms or into the tunnel under the Palazzo, though, so all is good. All it would take is good cleaning, replacement windows and some new paintings, and it would look as if nothing happened.

It feels foul though. Federico still can't help but think what might have happened, had Mother, Claudia, Ezio and Petruccio been there. Ezio could have fought the invaders for a while, but the rest…

Some of it must show on his face, because Father clasps him by the shoulder. "We must strive to secure the palazzo better – and in future keep our work better underground," he says. "So that we will not bring such troubles to our doorsteps."

"Yes, Father," Federico agrees. "The Templars know about us, though."

"They know about me, Son," Giovanni says. "And as far as anyone knows, I wasn't even present at the attack. Let us hope that will quell the trouble somewhat. Now come – let's help Annetta begin with the cleaning."

It takes all day to recover from the mess of invasion – they end up having cartful of trash at the end of it, with broken furniture, the broken window and some other things thrown into the mix, which had been left in sorry state. Annetta does an excellent job getting the halls and rooms clean, though, sweeping and wiping with fury that makes Federico quietly wonder if she might have lost friends last night. She does come from Paola's house – and that house lost some of its girls.

The ambush had been a success, but a costly one. Five of La Volpe's thieves had died, and seven of Paola's girls – neither is particularly happy about it, though they are glad to have quelled the Templar plot. For now, Giovanni had decreed that they would rely on the thieves and the courtesans a little less, to let the spirits settle.

Right now, their allies aren't terribly happy with him, Federico's found – it makes him wonder if he'd be welcome at La Rosa Colta for the foreseeable future. The ambush had been planned between Lorenzo de' Medici and Giovanni Auditore, he hadn't had hand in it… but he is an Assassin and he too played his part. And none of them were injured.

It might make former friends, now suffering loss, bitter. Better not risk it.

"Do you think it will be safe for Mother and others to return soon?" Federico asks.

"We will give it few more days at least," Giovanni says and looks at him. "I will send you for them once we do – I don't like the idea of them travelling the countryside unguarded now, concerning what happened. I would not be surprised if we had made new enemies. You have other things to fetch from the Villa at any rate."

"Like what?"

"The Codex Pages for ser Desmond," Giovanni says.

Federico's heart skips a beat and his breathing stills, just for a moment – and his father gives him a look. Federico clears his throat. "I would be delighted to see Monteriggioni again, Father."

"I'm sure you would," Giovanni says flatly and then sets down the books he'd been neatening – someone had utterly upturned all the bookshelves of his office, likely looking for hidden switches. The books were barely damaged but the mess was considerable. "And what of ser Desmond, Federico? How fares he, after the attack?"

Federico crouches down to pick more books. "You saw him yourself – he was well," he says, as nonchalant as he can. Desmond had seen them on the morning after the attack, to report his own acts across the city – he had been taking care of the mercenaries, it seems, which had put an end to the looting around the city. _How_ he'd done it, Federico isn't sure – there had been no reports of mysterious deaths or bodies popping up afterwards. Threatening and chasing them out of the city, possibly.

"Federico," Giovanni says flatly and leans to his desk, folding his arms. "Don't play coy with me – I know how you get and I saw how you looked at him."

Federico hesitates and then stacks some books and rises to his feet, setting them onto the desk to be sorted. "I…" he has no idea what to say.

It's not been a secret that his inclinations _strayed_ past the boundaries permitted by society – there had even been a truly mortifying incident with him being caught with a runner in a storage room when he'd been fifteen, for which he'd gotten one hell of a talking to. But, though illegal, his parents had never… demanded him to change, there. Only to take care and be cautious and _make sure_ he was safe and beyond reproach in his public behaviour.

It had both shocked and terrified him then – later, when Father begun conducting him into the Brotherhood, it made more sense. Theirs is a family that follows the Creed – and the Creed blatantly disregards the laws of society. _Nothing is true, everything is permitted_ is not an empty vow in their household.

But they're still bound by veneer of respectability because while not noble family by blood, they are part of a _higher_ society by duty. Giovanni works for the Medici both in and out of shadows – it gives them expectations when it comes to public conduct. And sometimes those expectations affect things outside public view, too.

Federico doesn't think Giovanni would _object_. But he might still not like it, due to those expectations, those duties – might wish to put an end to it, just to avoid the potential of scandal.

Giovanni looks at him silently, waiting for him to say something – but Federico doesn't know what to say. He can't excuse his interest, he has no excuse and he feels no need to excuse it. But it's damn awkward to be called out on it too.

"Does he return your regard?" Giovanni finally speaks, his tone even, borderline diplomatic.

That's one way of putting it. "He's not… abhorred by it," Federico says.

"That is not what I asked, Son."

Federico bows his head. "I know he's interested but… we mean to talk about it, later," he says. "He said he first needed to think about it."

Giovanni hums. "Well, at least one of you is."

"Father," Federico objects and lifts his eyes – his father is giving him the eyebrow.

"You know the risks therein, my son," Giovanni says quietly. "We live lives more public than most Assassins – and ser Desmond has taken the habit of a monk as his disguise, which puts him a worse risk yet. You must have caution with such things."

Federico lets out a breath. "I know – I know, but…" he looks away.

"And ser Desmond is an Assassin besides," Giovanni continues. "A highly skilled one at that, and one we still know rather little about – only enough to be suspicious."

"Maybe if we grow closer he will finally tell us," Federico suggests and Father gives him a flat look. "He would not hurt me, I know he wouldn't. He… cares," Federico says defensively. At least he _thinks_ the man does. None of his reactions to Federico had been violent anyway…

Giovanni sighs. "And do you?" he asks. "Care for him? Or is it just lust for a difficult conquest that entices you?"

Federico swallows and looks away. "I – want to know him better," he admits. And he wants to press the man against flat surfaces and pin him down – but that's beside the point here. "I want to learn all there is to know about him. Isn't that enough to try?"

Or must he be in love with the man right from the get go to even get the chance to try? Federico isn't like Claudia and Ezio when it comes to love – though he _likes_ his pleasure and he likes to share it with people just as they do… he does not fall in love at first glance. Sometimes how they do it leaves him rather worried for them over it, to be honest – how easily they fall and how treacherous the drop seems.

Giovanni eyes him seriously for a moment and then clasps a hand over Federico's cheek. "You are serious about him?" he asks.

"I'm serious that I want to try," Federico answers, wary but honest. "He _fascinates_ me, Father. I couldn't rest, not even trying."

For a moment, Federico thinks his father will object – he looks so worried. But in the end, Giovanni smiles and pats his cheek. "You're much like your Mother, in this," he says almost nostalgically. "I believe she chased me down for similar reasons – I made the _terrible_ mistake of fascinating her."

Federico blinks, surprised. He's heard the stories of course, of how their parents met – but he'd thought it was another tale of love at first sight. "You didn't pursue her?"

"I was a working Assassin, I could hardly allow such things as _love_ into my life freely," Giovanni says. "Never mind how much I adored her, how could I put her through such life, such danger? She had none of it, of course, and I believe would have chased me to the ends of the earth, just to uncover my secrets."

Federico grins a little at that – it's surprising but not that unbelievable, knowing Mother. She has a way of getting to the bottom of secrets around her. "Well done there, Mother," he murmurs. She's not a _working_ Assassin, not like Father – but she is an _Assassin_ now. The pursuit must've been _relentless._

"Indeed," Giovanni says with a faint laugh and lets his hand fall to Federico's shoulder. "But you will take care, Son – and you must be _careful_ ," he adds. "You know the risks."

"I will take care," Federico says, even while thinking of the closet, the garden – the constant inclination to make a rather public fool of himself. "Only behind closed and locked doors, I swear."

"I won't ask impossible of you – just stay _safe_ ," Giovanni says and then smiles. "You have the Sight, now. No doubt you will soon have Ezio's knack for convenient hiding spaces and quick escapes. And surprisingly safe falls from terrifyingly high places," he mutters, shaking his head.

Federico frowns. "So that is how he does it. I thought he was just lucky."

"Well, at least that is my assumption," Giovanni says and then turns to the books again, to continue the cleaning. "Now, tell me about the Sight – how did it come to you?"

* * *

 

While the Medici assert their power over their city, and the remnants of the conspirators seem to have all but vanished, Federico trains his new ability. Well, mostly he just goes around and _tries_ it, tries to see how it changes things – how much he can really see, or rather _sense_ with it.

At Father's urging, he's also started writing an encrypted accounting of his progress and of his experience, because it turns out all their old knowledge about the ability might be very wrong. They all have it down as physical ability, enhanced vision – a change to their eyes alone, that might be forced with visual training and concentration, when in reality… it seems to have little to do with it.

Desmond had explained some of it – and that is the base from which Federico pushes from.

First, the Eagle Vision is not much a thing you see, but the awareness of your surroundings – an enhanced perception that is impossible to describe. When he opens his eyes it translates to visual elements – a red glow on a man who might be an enemy, a blue glow on an ally. White marks a safe place, or a safe person – a hay he can drop into safely or outhouse where he might not be found. But even with those visual clues, it's more a feeling than something he sees. Safety is clear, danger red, aid blue. And gold…

Gold is for points of _extreme_ interest.

Like ser Desmond, who Federico finds he could probably now track down, if he tried to. He has no idea where the man is or how far – but he knows the direction because it feels _golden_ and _important_ that way. It just feels like _Desmond_.

He doesn't add that to the accounting except in vaguest terms – nothing about ser Desmond himself or their connection.

While _sensing_ that golden thread wistfully, Federico tries to remember what Desmond has said of the Eagle Vision when they'd talked about it before. There was something about high places – about how the gift got its old name. Because Altaïr climbed high places, and sat there like Eagle on lookout?

So, Federico looks for a tower that seems high enough – that seems somehow _clarifying_ though he has no idea why it might feel that way – and then climbs it. It's a church's bell tower and it takes some effort to climb it unseen, but he manages it on the shadow side until he's on the top, where the winds tear at his hair and clothes and where the air is pristine and clean. There, he concentrates, and let's his vision, his awareness, expand.

And so, he comes to know the city – or rather, a good swathe of it. He knows the stores below him, a doctor who is selling medicine in the square below, he knows there are hiding places near by – and _treasure_ which might be of use. There are informants, a group of prostitutes are loitering by the square also, they might work as allies…

Below him, there is a haystack, glowing inviting white.

Yes, it seems that is indeed how Ezio does it, Federico muses and then sits down on the rooftop, in no hurry to get down yet. The awareness fades with his vision, and Federico is left with a sense of familiarity with the place below him. Of course, he knows the area anyway, this is his hometown, he knows it well – but now feels almost like he's gone over every building and expected every corner – discovered all their secrets.

Lot of those things he couldn't have seen even if his vision was good enough – most of it's _behind_ him and he wasn't even looking that way.

Lying down on his back on the roof tiles, Federico crosses his arms behind his head, frowning at the sky.

Eagle Vision… is it magic? It can't be _normal_ , this sort of ability, this sort of supernatural awareness. Desmond said it was all in their head, and the side effects were their… brains trying to do things their eyes can't do? Whatever that means, most of it had gone beyond Federico's understanding.

Why had Ezio never said it was like this? Or does he just think it's normal to see things through the back of his head, just like that? Ezio told him once that he can't remember ever _not_ having the ability, so he'd never known the world to be any different. Maybe he doesn't know what it is like to be normal, then.

Desmond does, though – Federico is sure of that. If Desmond was like Ezio then he couldn't explain it either, could he? But he could he knew just how to explain it, to make it make some sense. He too must've developed the ability later on – and he must have delved into how it worked in detail…

Federico wants to ask him – and at the same time knows if he got the chance, asking about the Eagle Vision would be the last thing he'd bother to do. So many more interesting and important things to cover.

If only Desmond would come to him.

Sighing, Federico closes his eyes and lets the city seep into his head.

Waiting is the absolute worst.

* * *

 

There is still some clean up to do around the city after the ambush and the ensuing scandals, but everything settles more or less by it self within the following days. The rumours about Federico defending the Medici fade into stories about how effective soldiers Medici had in their employ and how good their security in their palazzo was. Pazzi became something of a joke – who does to commit an assassination in a man's own house, where he is surrounded by friends and allies, honestly?

If only they knew how well Pazzi filled that house with their own people. Better that they don't.

Francesco and Vieri have funerals – outside Florence. Jacopo de Pazzi has their bodies delivered to him in the countryside – he is not foolish enough to come to the city now, it seems, with the Medici once more in full strength and force within Florence's walls. Of the others, Federico hears little – the former Gonfaloniere gets a proper funeral within Florence, though it is a contested one. Baronchelli's burial Federico doesn't hear anything at all, and Stefano da Bagnone and Antonio Maffei simply disappear – though there are rumours of their excommunications, it's hard to say if it would happen. The Pope, after all, has is ties to this whole mess.

Of all the conspirators, only Francesco Salviati remains in the city – but that's because he's in prison, waiting a trial. He'd be hung if the Medici would have their way – but the man is a Bishop, so it'd likely be more difficult to decide what will become of him. Depending on whether the Pope would take an actual stand, Salviati's fate would probably end up being lifetime of imprisonment.

All in all, the city settles – but not perfectly without issues.

"We're beginning to uncover the ties they have, the people they have working under them," Giovanni tells him. "Going through the belongings, decoding their letters. They had tied to merchants, minor politicians, bankers… Even while the Medici were still a threat, they were already moving to control the city behind the scenes."

"I suppose they will have to be taken care of," Federico guesses.

"Yes, better to root out all their runners before they can start setting more roots," Giovanni says. "I don't think the Templars are yet done with Florence. We've put an end to their plans now, but better not give them another opportunity in future."

Federico nods in agreement and adjusts the straps of his hidden blade. "I'm ready to my duty as an Assassin, Father."

Giovanni considers it. "Yes, I think you are, at that," he says then and smiles grimly. "In that case… I have a mission for you."

* * *

 

Hide plain in sight. That's the second tenet of the Assassin's Brotherhood. Federico thinks they live by it pretty well – they live as normal people in Florence with nothing truly remarkable about them, serving the Medici family in their way, living outwardly normal lives.

But behind the scenes, Giovanni Auditore wears a rather flashy robe of an Assassin, white striped with red. It's stark and noticeable and it sends a _message_ – it does not, however, help them hide in plain sight. Who wears such clothes, really, in Florence? The style is familiar and odd at same time – and it's noticeable. Only thing that is even remotely clandestine about it is the cape and even that is worn more like a banner than as a cover, in their robes.

"They are modelled after the robes of the Levantine order," Giovanni had once told him with tone of nostalgia. "White hood is all but representative now, it carries a certain meaning as a symbol of our grim duty. It is also badge of honour – to wear white, and to not stain it in our work. If you can do that, then you can do anything."

And it's a mark of a duty, a mission to be carried out.

Federico hadn't ever really questioned it, in terms of their tenets. The hood to him had always been a mark of status – it's what separates them from the other Assassins he knows. Paola and La Volpe wear hoods, yes, in their own ways… but theirs aren't that particular proud shade of _Assassin white_ , are they? To wear that made the Auditore Assassins something special – something… grand.

He suspects now that the white robes might be a carryover from the time of Renato Auditore – that back then, back when the Brotherhood was mightier and their numbers greater and they all worked together… the white hood and robe had been an _uniform_ , a symbol of unity perhaps.

Now… now it does not blend them in. It sets them apart.

And to wear them during an Assassination, where before it would have made Federico only feel proud, now it makes him worry. He thinks he could blend in regardless – his target will be in public area, a merchant who needs to be removed from the equation. Getting to the man wouldn't be impossible. But…

But he can't help but imagine Desmond, completing this assassination – how easy it would be in his black monk's robes to sneak up on his target without rousing any sort of attention, and deal away with the man without anyone being the wiser. Federico has witnessed the man's disappearing acts – he's _masterful_ in blending in, and the clothes aid him, the black hood is perfect for it.

And it's obvious why Desmond chose it, Federico realises it more than ever now. In Florence, where monks roam the streets all the time, it's the perfect disguise. A white robe and white hood hardly blends into anything, here. What crowd could you wear such clothes and look natural? Carnival crowd, perhaps.

Still… the white robes are _so fine_. They are not practical – but wearing them still makes Federico's heart beat a little prouder.

So he wears them and he wears them proudly… even though it makes him squirm a little with a sort of guilty pleasure, now.

* * *

 

It is his first official assassination, with a clearly defined target and goal. A merchant in the Santa Marco district, who had been smuggling in weapons and other goods for the Pazzi and other Templars in the city, and would probably continue to do so even with the Pazzi influence gone from the city. It's simple enough – Giovanni even supplies him with a good location. The merchant is known to walk around in the alleys, checking on the stores there – potentially settling deals. Finding him shouldn't be hard.

And with the Eagle Vision, it isn't. The man glows golden under Federico's gaze, the importance of the mission marking him down. No wonder the Assassins hallow the ability – it makes their work so much simpler, it seems.

All is left to do is to deal with the man.

Federico crouches by a rooftop, watching the gold hued target slowly pace down the street – despite the recent happenings, the man doesn't even look nervous. Some nerves he has, Federico muses and checks the people on the street. There's not many. Small distraction and he'd have a clear shot.

And then he'd kill another man, with cold calculated intend.

Federico breathes in and out, pushing the memory of Vieri from his head and then he swings down from the rooftop, and gets to work. Distraction is easy to arrange – there is a man carrying some fragile looking boxes down the street – as he passes the man by, Federico shoulders into him slightly and then, trying not to wince at the ensuing yelp, moves on. There's a clatter of boxes falling, their contents crashing onto the street – and then whole lot of shouting. It's enough to draw people's eyes to the man and his minor disaster – and away from Federico.

The merchant is heading towards an art shop, minute tension on his shoulders – he heard the noise and is trying to ignore it. Not quite so nonchalant then, after all, Federico thinks and bows his head slightly, hiding his eyes under the beak of his hood. His hand shakes and then he squeezes it into fist.

He's an _Assassin_ and this man consorted with the people who plotted to kill the Medici – who sent people to the Auditore Palazzo. This is his job, his duty – his responsibility. Father is relying on him to be able to do it.

He can think about it later – now, he must act.

Whatever the merchant is expecting, a knife to the back is not it. Federico delivers it as he walks past the him, the tip of his hidden blade sinking through the man's clothes and between his ribs, into his lung – and then Federico is walking away, leaving the man swaying and then falling. The stab was not immediately lethal – but it's not something a man survives, a punctured lung. He'd be dead before the day would be over.

Federico bows his head, and makes a slow paced escape, determined to not cause a scene. Once he is out of view range and in the shelter of an alleyway, he quickly turns to the nearest wall with imperfections and scales up it, past the shuttered windows and onto the roof.

There he takes a moment to breathe and quell the shudder of his shoulders. He will get used to it, eventually. This was only the first assassination, only his second proper mission. He is still new to this – he will get used to it. Eventually, it would not affect him this badly.

Eventually.

Federico closes his eyes and breathes until it no longer hurts his throat and then he stands up, and lets the Eagle Vision flare up. There is something – _there_ , a golden feeling.

 _Desmond_.

Federico lifts his chin slightly, feeling for the direction – it doesn't seem to move, but it's changing. Coming closer. Desmond is coming to him – can _he_ track Federico with the Eagle Vision too, the way Federico can now track him? Does Federico appear golden with importance to Desmond?

Federico squeezes his hands into fists to calm the last of his nervous tension and then he looks around. There, across the rooftops on the other side of the street below – a rooftop garden. It would be a better meeting place than open rooftops, for two assassins in full robes.

The tension of the assassination giving way to eager excitement and new nervousness, Federico hurries over the rooftop and launches himself to another, scaling up to the rooftop garden and then leaning onto the parapet, waiting for Desmond to reach him. Has he made his decision; what would he say? And if it's a rejection… can Federico convince him otherwise?

He's not sure if he's glad this will happen in robes or not – with his previous musings, meeting more pragmatically robed Desmond in the rather grandiose robes of his Father's design feels a bit…

And there he is, Desmond, launching himself to the rooftop with near avian grace. Federico has seen him move over rooftops before, but this is first time he can appreciate the man _approaching_ him. The man has different style to his movements – more confined. Federico, like his father, his uncle and nowadays Ezio too, moves with pragmatic speed, the faster the better and _damn_ the how it looks – Desmond on other hand limits unnecessary movements. When he jumps, he curls his knees upwards, makes himself small. It looks quiet and almost effortless – and nothing like Federico's and Ezio's less graceful leaps. Desmond also moves low more often, crouching down – keeping the lowest profile possible.

It makes Federico feel flashy and amateurish – and greedy to learn more. How does Desmond do it, how did he learn it – could Federico learn to move that way too?

Desmond stands up straighter as he approaches and then he stalls, on the roof tiles slightly below the rooftop garden, facing Federico with the parapet between them. Federico leans his elbows to it, watching Desmond and forcefully keeping his body language in, no matter how eager and awkward he feels.

"Hello, Desmond," he says, smiling, admiring the slim, lethal figure Desmond makes in sunlight. "Aren't those robes hot?" he then asks, curiously. Wearing so much black in this much sun…

"That was terrible," Desmond says flatly.

"What?" Federico asks, confused. The assassination?

"As come-ons come, I've heard better," Desmond says, which only confused Federico further. Sometimes, he's not entirely sure if they're talking the same language. Desmond continues on, though, ignoring his confusion. "You're wearing the hood," he says. "Assassination?"

"Hm," Federico nods, leaning in a little. "Merchant who smuggled weapons and supplies for the Pazzi," he says and looks away, squinting his eyes and concentrating. There is a small commotion happening in the street where he'd left the body – some of the people there feel red.

Desmond looks that way too. "You left the body where you killed him?"

"I was supposed to – it's to send a message to the rest of Pazzi supporters."

"Might chase them underground, make them harder to find," Desmond says noncommittally.

"Or out of town, which will mean we won't have to worry about them." Federico shrugs. "With the Eagle Vision, I think I can track them now."

"Yeah," Desmond agrees and turns to look at him from under his back hood. "You should now."

Federico considers asking him what else he knows about the ability, what other things he should be able to do with it – but like he'd predicted it before… there are more pressing matters. "Well, then, Ser Desmond," Federico says, leaning in. "Have you done your thinking?"

Desmond doesn't answer immediately, looking at him seriously. Then he turns away and sighs. "I'm sorry."

Federico swallows and frowns. That's… not the answer he hoped to get.

The black-robed Assassin bows his head a little. "You – I… there was someone I knew once, who was a lot like you," he says awkwardly and looks away, hiding his eyes. "He was like my brother, and it… confuses me sometimes. I look at you, and part of me sees him."

"You – loved him?" Federico asks quietly, guessing that this person is probably dead by now.

"Like a brother," Desmond says and shakes his head. "Not – like that, though."

"I'm not him, though," Federico says and then vaults over the parapet, joining Desmond on the roof tiles. "I'm sorry for your loss but I am not him, whoever this person was. Can't you…" he trails off, wondering if he's being cruel in his self interest, wanting Desmond to forget this troubling similarity in favour of what he wants. "I _am_ sorry, but…"

Desmond looks at him, looking as helpless as Federico feels. Federico pushes closer, reaching for his hand – and for once, Desmond doesn't try to pull away. "You still want me?" Federico asks quietly, tilting his head to catch Desmond's eyes under their hoods.

"As damn awkward as it is," Desmond mutters and looks down. His fingers twitch and then he lowers their hands. "Like a lot of things, it's all in my head. It's not your fault."

It still doesn't sound like agreement or acquiescence, just an apology. "If you being attracted to me is _not_ my fault then I am doing something terribly wrong here," Federico murmurs, trying for playful as he leans a little closer. "Please let me try and do better."

"That's not what I mean," Desmond sighs and rolls his eyes. "And yeah, you can take all the credit for that. You're fucking unbelievable."

Federico beams at that, delighted. Oh, he's making the man swear – alright, he is definitely doing something right. "Happy to hear it, my dear Desmond, and oh, _please_ , tell me more."

The look Desmond gives him is utterly mirthless. "This is still awkward for me, Federico," he mutters and looks away uneasily.

Federico hesitates at that – too much too soon, then. "Please don't let it stop you," he pleads. "I want you, I want to learn more about you. We can figure it out, can't we?" Desmond doesn't answer, but as Federico lifts his hand to press a kiss against the leather covering his knuckles, he glances back at him. "I will do whatever it takes to put you better at ease. Please let me try. I promise I will make it worth your while."

Desmond stares at him, his eyes flicking between his eyes and his lips on his own knuckles. "We're out in the open, you know," he murmurs, awkward.

"Who looks at rooftops?" Federico asks, smiling.

"Lot more people than you think," Desmond mutters at him, but he is still not making no move to pull his hand away. And there's that charming blush again. Oh, he likes it, he definitely likes it.

"Come here then," Federico says, smiling and leading him backwards, towards the rooftop garden. "We can stay out of sight here and no one will be the wiser. Come, darling, come with me."

Desmond looks part him, at the enclosure of the garden with it's curtains set to keep birds away, and then, utterly fetching, he blushes even deeper. "Unbelievable," he mutters – and then he follows, letting eager Federico lead him up the roof, onto the platform of the garden – and then into the sheltered space within.

Federico hops in first, and then gets the pleasure of seeing Desmond balance perfectly on the half wall of the enclosure, with the curtain falling to his shoulders and the slanted tails of his robes hanging around his folded knees. How he makes a simple crouch look graceful, Federico has no idea, but he does. With light at his back and shadows falling to his face, he looks down right elegant.

"Well, I always did wonder what's in these things," Desmond murmurs, looking down while pushing the curtain back – and then Federico takes his hooded head between his hands and kisses him. Desmond lets out a delightful muffled noise of surprise – he almost falls, grabbing hold of the support pole by the curtain with one hand, and the wall under his feet with the other for balance, which leaves him delightfully open for Federico's attack.

But he doesn't try and pull back, letting Federico kiss him to his heart content. And what a lovely kiss it is too – not quite like Federico's fervent affair at the Medici Palazzo or Desmond's furious rebuttal – this is slow and lingering and delicious and _Desmond allows it_ , making no move to end it early.

Federico hums happily, pulling back a little to look at him. Desmond's eyes are all black in the shadows of his hood and his lips are slightly parted – gleaming in the flickering light that reaches in through the flutter of the curtains. Federico's smile is wide and enthralled as he traces Desmond's lips with a thumb and, oh, as he presses on the scar that cuts through Desmond's full lips, they quiver with a shudder of an inhale. Desmond looks so _overwhelmed_.

What else can Federico do, but kiss the man again?

So Federico pulls the black-robed Assassin into another kiss and together they tumble back and into the enclosure, the curtains swinging to their place behind them, hiding them from the world.


	11. Chapter 11

"So, how goes things with the lover boy?"

" _Shaun_ …"

"What – he has that look again."

Desmond shakes his head and closes the door behind him, waiting for the resounding thunk of the mechanisms locking before looking up. Rebecca is sitting on the floor by the mats and mattresses where they usually sleep while Shaun sits by the singular beam of light they have shining down on their little bolt hole, book in his lap. They look… terrible.

"I have good news and bad news," Desmond says, ignoring the way Shaun is arching his brows at him.

"Let's have the good news and forget the bad news because our lives are the baddest of news here already," Shaun mutters.

"That actually makes our lives sound pretty cool, you realise. We're the Baddest News on the block," Rebecca says with a wry grin and looks at Desmond. "Bad news please."

"Bad news is, we're out of here," Desmond says, stepping away from the stone door and looking around. Their little hideout is actually pretty spacious all things considered – big hidden room, stone on all sides with pretty clean floor and plenty of space to move around. It's not as big as the Grand Temple or even the Sanctuary under the Auditore Villa, but it's not tight or cramped.

It has _zero_ amenities though, or even privacy – the whole space is just the single room, with no furniture. They have some stolen crates which work as tables and they've curtained off area to work as a toilet but… the toilet is a bucket. It's not exactly the Ritz of hideouts, not even close, even though the business of bucket toilets isn't exactly new to any of them.

But it's been safe – as an entrance chamber to an Assassin Tomb, it's just about the safest bolt hole you can find in Florence. No one knows about it, and no one but them know how to enter it.

"Good news – or bad news if you're Shaun…" Desmond continues and takes out a rolled up piece of paper from a pouch. "Is that we now own a house."

They just stare at him for a moment in silence – moment later both Rebecca and Shaun scramble to their feet. Shaun makes it first, and snatches the document from Desmond's hands, unwinding the string around it and rolling it open. It is, of course, a deed – and it now has Desmond's signature on it. Or rather _Aquila_ _'s_.

"You got this from the Medici?" Shaun demands.

"No – the Auditore," Desmond says, folding his arms. "Giovanni asked around and they found us a place with no ties to anyone, not even the Auditore. I think it might have been a brothel at some point – it's pretty big, but it's also pretty run down.

"Old brothel – well that's running with a theme, isn't it," Shaun mutters, squinting at the deed. "Where is it?"

"San Giovanni – pretty close to the river," Desmond says.

"And we could afford it?"

Desmond shrugs. "With the money I got from Lorenzo, easy," he says. Not that they actually needed it – robbing the assassin tombs and raiding Templar bolt holes has already put them in pretty comfortable place as money goes.

"Can, you know… _monks_ own a building?" Rebecca asks, looking up. "And what will that even look like, couple of monks settling down in a building?"

Desmond shrugs. "We're not really monks – we just ditch the disguise and figure out a new one. The Auditore manage it, I don't see why we couldn't." Though he is fond of the robes he wears. They're comfortable – lot more comfortable than trying to figure out hose and doublets and all that.

And the robe makes him feel like proper goddamn Assassin, even if he's never had the ceremony.

"You will have to put on dresses, Rebecca. And wear scarves and hats," Shaun says, grinning as he examines the deed more closely. "I think you will look lovely, properly dolled up."

"Up yours, Shaun," Rebecca says and folds her arms. "The more important question is – is there a bathroom?"

"Yep. There's even a garderobe," Desmond promises.

"A what now?"

"It's a sort of outhouse that sticks out of the side of the building," Shaun explains. "Think old-timey water closet, but without water," he rolls up the deed and then points it at Desmond. "Just for the sake of posterity, I am still not _agreeing_ that any of this is a good idea. We shouldn't be planning to stick around when there's stuff to do _elsewhere_.

"I'll just mark you down as objecting, shall I?" Desmond asks, arching brows.

"But," Shaun says flatly. "I want out of this bloody tomb – when can we leave?"

"As soon as you're ready," Desmond says. "The house is ours. It's just waiting for us to settle in."

The effect is immediate – both of them go to get their things, Shaun wrapping up the few books they've managed to accumulate while Rebecca starts throwing the things she's tinkering with into a box. It doesn't take long for them to pack – it's not like they have managed to collect much stuff, in last few weeks.

Desmond has no packing to do at all – everything he has, he's wearing, pretty much.

"We'll need to figure out a cover story," Shaun says. "Something that explains how three foreigners just up and get to buy a house in Florence."

"Or one local and his two foreign friends," Rebecca suggests, giving Desmond a look. "Brother Aquila stops being a monk and becomes somehow independently wealthy and –"

"And then has two foreigners suddenly smooching off of his independent wealth, yes, that will make us look so nice and pleasant, Rebecca," Shaun snorts. "Practically saints, we are, in that story."

"You know, it would make a pretty good Florentine story – and it does sound like something that might actually happen," Desmond comments and then lets out an _oof_ as Shaun hauls a box of books at him. Sighing, Desmond grabs a hold of it while Shaun goes to get more.

"What, poor under-sexed former monk being taken advantage off by foreigners?" Rebecca asks, grinning.

Desmond shrugs. "You're both very pretty and clever, I'm sure you could take advantage of a poor innocent monk if you put your mind to it. It's not a _nice_ story, but people taking advantage of innocent rich guys, that happens all the time," he says seriously. "And I am very under-sexed," he adds under his breath.

"Which brings us back to my first question," Shaun says. "How goes things with lover boy? Did you manage to get your head out of your arse – or your arse out of your head, actually, yeah that works better for you now that I think about it."

"Shut up, Shaun," Desmond mutters, and refuses to blush.

* * *

 

The house is… actually pretty much what they all expect. They'd all seen the places Ezio had _taken up_ over the years and then with the click of a magical Animus button repaired and refurbished – they all started out as rundown hulks of buildings, with wind howling through broken windows and rats scurrying about the floor. This one is much like that.

It's three story establishment with a nice big cellar – there are some holes in the floors and the rooftop leaks, but it's not half bad, as Renaissance fixer-uppers go. There's plenty of rooms – and plenty of beds on which none of them will ever dare to sleep in, knowing what the place used to be – and plenty of space. There's a spacious kitchen, and yes, a bathroom – and garderobes too, though how well they hold up is hard to say. They've been kind of in the mercy of elements for few years, with no one minding the place.

"This place is a shit hole," Rebecca says.

"Yeah," Desmond agrees, running a hand over a dust covered railing that follows the stairs leading up. The place has an entrance hall that reminds him a little of _Rosa in Fiore_ , except this place has no carpets or curtains and what paint there has ever been on the walls has long since flaked off. It smells more like a wet barn than anything.

"It is also pretty big," Shaun says. "Place like this, you'll need to be running a business – like a brothel – to make it make any sense. Even a independently wealthy monk looks weird, owning place this big and then _not_ making it a business. Why'd you get place this big anyway?"

Desmond shrugs and looks away. He'd been shown couple of places aside from this one, they'd both been lot smaller. This one… this one got under his skin, though. This one felt familiar.

"You know what this place reminds me of?" Rebecca asks slowly. "Tiber island hideout. Or maybe Davenport Homestead."

"Yeah," Desmond agrees.

"Desmond," Shaun says, peering at him suspiciously. "You're not planning recruitment, are you? We are not equipped for _children_ , Desmond, or students or – or anything. And we're not staying here indefinitely!"

Desmond shakes his head and looks down. "Of course not," he says, but it doesn't sound very convincing to him either. "But it won't hurt to have options, you know. Don't – don't start again, I don't want to fight."

"Well I do," Shaun says and sets down the box of books, all but slamming it down on the wooden stairs. They creak and bit of dust rains down from above. "We should be looking for a _way back_ , not settling down! I don't even know what I was thinking, agreeing with you to collect the damn Codex Pages, when we should've been heading straight for Masyaf –"

"Shaun," Rebecca sighs.

"– and getting the Apple of Altaïr –"

"Which wouldn't even _open_ the Grand Temple," Desmond says with a frustrated sigh. "You need the Apple from Cyprus for that –"

" _No_ ," Shaun says pointedly. "Any Apple should do the trick – so as long as you stick it in Minerva's face and have her change it to the key, right?"

"Which she might not even do, now, that we're here – "

"Yeah, now that we're here – and who the hell knows what kind of damage you've done, changing history as much as you have," Shaun continues, all but reciting the argument now. "We have the money to travel and we know exactly where Altaïr's Apple is, and we know where the Masyaf keys are – so why don't we just go and _get it_? We have the money to travel now – why are we settling down _here_?"

Desmond sighs and bows his head. Because he _wants to_ , and they all know it – so what's the goddamn point arguing about it? "You know what, if you want to go, be my guest," he says through gritted teeth. "I'll get you the money and you can be on your merry way. And good fucking luck to you."

Shaun blinks at that and then hesitates. "Well," he says, but doesn't continue further.

Rebecca looks between them and then sighs. "Guys – we have time here," she says. "The world isn't ending yet – we have time, something we don't have in future. We have literally hundreds of years –"

"Which would be lovely if we were immortal, Rebecca – are you immortal? Because I'm not – who the hell knows about Desmond though, at this point he might be."

"Oh, god, I hope _not_ ," Desmond says, horrified.

" _Anyway_ ," Rebecca says pointedly. "We have time to figure this out. Ezio didn't go to Masyaf until he was in his fifties, that's decades away. We're still in the fourteen-seventies – there is loads of time."

"More now with most of the Templars dead," Desmond points out.

"And it's nice not to be in mortal peril and hunted all the time," Rebecca asks.

"And the general lack of modern utilities, technology or, you know, _health care_ doesn't bother you at all?" Shaun asks.

Rebecca shrugs. "We've already lived longer here than we would've back there," she comments. "At least the sun isn't blowing up here."

Shaun scowls at that. "Don't take this the wrong way, but good point."

Rebecca preens and then looks to Desmond. "So, yeah, I am not against settling down in a place with a bathroom – for a while. Or getting some clothes that don't include breeze in my privates."

"I don't know, I'm finding it liberating," Shaun comments. "And I think, with skirts and all which is what you're going to have to wear if you want to blend in… the netherous breeze might be a build in feature."

"Ugh. I am _not_ wearing skirts."

Desmond shakes his head, snorting. "How about we see what we can do about this place and figure out disguises later?" he asks. "Besides there were women who didn't wear skirts around Ezio. There's Rosa – and Ezio's female recruits."

"Yes, his _definitely not a harem,_ " Shaun snorts.

"Hey," Desmond says, offended.

"You thought it too, don't lie."

"He never slept with any of them."

"Psh," Shaun snorts and then shrugs. "Well, he won't get a chance now, in either case. Since you completely derailed his future and all, I doubt he will be the Mentor now. Speaking of which, Desmond, congratulations, you did what hundreds – arguably _thousands_ – of Templars failed to do. You wiped out the best Mentor the Brotherhood has ever had off the face of history. Good job."

Desmond sighs. "Fuck you Shaun. Like you could've sat by and do nothing."

"I could have and I _would_ have."

"Guys," Rebecca sighs. "Come on. We're over this already. Shaun, give it a rest."

"As long as Desmond keeps mucking up with history, _never_."

"It's not history here, it's the present," Desmond says. "And what was that you said, about history dying if things stop changing, evolving? It's not dead here, so how about you get your head out of a fucking history book and start living a little."

Rebecca lets out a huff and throws up her hands, walking ahead of them and leaving them behind. Desmond and Shaun both look after her and then share a look.

"I'll shut up if you give me the money to buy new glasses. And if you introduce me to Leonardo da Vinci," Shaun says finally. "And Machiavelli."

Desmond lets out a snort. "I haven't even met either of them yet."

" _Yet_ ," Shaun says and points a finger at him. "Ha! Well I guess what with you humping the scion of Auditore, you're bound to eventually – and once you do, introductions will happen. And the glasses, Desmond, I need _glasses_."

"Yes, yes, I'll give you the money to get glasses. Now give it a rest and look for mould. The sooner we figure out what needs fixing here, the faster we can have it fixed," Desmond mutters. "And I am not _humping him_."

"He's humping you, same difference."

"There's no _humping_."

"Well then you're _both_ doing something wrong."

"Shut up, Shaun."

* * *

 

It would take weeks to repair the house to a proper state. Desmond finds them a good, if not very reputable, architect to look the place over – one which comes well recommended by the thieves for his confidence. It's the same man who does repairs on La Volpe's hideouts, it turns out.

The man asks a lot for his work but it's worth it, if not for anything else, then to get the windows fixed. There's a breeze howling in the house all day and night and it sounds bit too much like people, wailing, for anyone's tastes. Bit of paint, new furniture, some finishing touches…

Desmond keeps imagining a counter top in the front hall, tables strewn across the room, people sitting in candle light, drinking. The place would work well as a bar – or, well, a tavern. Maybe with side business of renting rooms to certain not so legal clients. He could even be a bartender again, wouldn't that be something.

Rebecca and Shaun have claimed the top floor to themselves – with what little Italian Shaun can manage he's plotting with the architect to knock down what walls they can to create bigger rooms. There'll be library there before long, and a workshop and if Desmond had someone to bet it with, he'd bet that Rebecca would start re-inventing electricity before the month would be up. He has no doubt about her being successful at it – there's already been talk of windmills and water turbines. How the hell they'd manage it in this time, Desmond isn't sure yet, but he has no doubt they would, somehow.

Probably sooner rather than later, if Desmond ever did meet Leonardo da Vinci and end up introducing Shaun and Rebecca to the poor man. They'd be doomed, all doomed, once that happened.

Desmond in meanwhile might be planning an armoury in the basement – right now it's just a thought, though. It's not like he can actually start an Assassin hideout just like that, he doesn't have Ezio's connections and contacts or his background. But they are still Assassins, in their own ways, so… an armoury could be useful. And maybe a wine cellar, if his thoughts of the tavern would ever come to fruition.

Yeah, the basement would definitely be his territory.

Desmond closes his eyes and then tilts his head as he feels a point of interest approaching – Federico his heading their way. Leaving Shaun and Rebecca to try and get their idea across to the poor architect, Desmond heads down stairs and to the front hall, to meet the Auditore when he arrives.

Damn, his reaction to Federico is becoming downright Pavlovian – already his hands are starting to tingle and itch.

Federico knocks on the unlocked door before easing it open just as Desmond comes down the stairs. Federico is in his street clothes, no white hood in sight – which Desmond can't help but feel a bit relieved about. Federico in Assassin white confuses his head like nothing else.

"Hey there, Desmond," Federico says, smiling and closing the door behind him. "Are you busy?"

Too busy for Federico? Never. "I have time," Desmond says, carefully keeping the thought from his face. "What can I do for you?"

"Come down here, for a start."

Desmond clears his throat, awkward, but goes to him – and then lets himself be spun around and pinned to the closed door. It's not forceful or aggressive or anything – Federico makes it feel more like a dance move – but the end result is the same, Desmond, once more, pinned down.

One of these days he will stop being so damn pliant for Federico. One of these days. Once it stops feeling so good.

Federico crowds him in with a grin and Desmond fights the urge to squirm – seriously, the leg wear men use these times leave _little_ to the imagination and Federico wears his hose and breeches particularly tight, it's downright _vulgar_. And Federico knows it too, angling his body always just so that he's just short of grinding into Desmond's thigh.

"Hello, dearest," Federico says, holding him with one hand at his waist, by the belt, and lifting the other hand to his cheek. "How I've missed you."

"We saw each other just the other day," Desmond sighs, even as he leans into the man's palm. Damn it.

"And it has been far too long even so," Federico says, tilting his head and then leaning in for a kiss.

Try as he might, Desmond can't really muster the energy to mind it. Federico feels almost unbearably good like this, pushing and prodding and testing limits constantly, claiming territory with impatient fingers and eager kisses. Confidence is good look on the man and it feels even better. There's never any doubt about Federico and about what he wants. Damn, but Desmond likes that.

And Federico kisses like a fucking champion too, like it's an art form he's honed and perfected and takes inordinate amount of pleasure in. Probably does too, the guy is not exactly hard to read about this. He's just passionate, all around, and Desmond, who more used to cold one night stands and quick exchanges in back rooms and bathrooms, is fucking helpless when put against it.

He can't even remember the last time he'd kissed anyone – soon, he'll probably forget it ever even happened before Federico. The guy is just that good.

"Mmm," Federico hums, scraping his teeth on Desmond's lower lip while Desmond tries to breathe evenly. "Now that's a proper greeting."

"We're – not alone here, you know," Desmond mumbles faintly as Federico brushes happily his nose against his cheek, tilting his head for another kiss.

"Oh, don't mind us," Shaun shouts in English from the top of the stairs. "We're just enjoying the show."

"Damn it, Shaun," Rebecca snaps.

Federico goes stiff against Desmond and tilts his head to look at them over his shoulder while Desmond groans, annoyed.

"Fuck you, both of you, seriously," he says English and pushes very worried looking Federico off.

"Hey now, no need to be rude," Shaun says, leaning onto the railing, adjusting his new, round spectacles with a grin. "And what was that about _no humping happening_? You little old liar you."

"Go jump off a building, Shaun," Desmond snaps, and then grabs Federico by his arm and lands him off – and to a more private room to the side. It has yet to be repaired and is still full of old, mostly broken furniture – but it's bit more private. "I'm sorry about that," he sighs, running a hand over his face. Damn, at least the architect didn't see.

"No, I'm – I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that right there," Federico says, grimacing and running a nervous hand through his hair. "Do they – uh…"

"Never mind them, it's fine. They're just – annoying," Desmond mutters and shakes his head. "Was there something you actually wanted, Federico?"

Federico looks at him and then relaxes. "Oh, I want many things, all the things," he says, his eyes trailing down suggestively. "But I did have a reason – I'm leaving for a while. Father thinks it's safe now, so I am going to fetch Mother and my siblings from Monteriggioni – along with the Codex pages we owe you."

"Alright," Desmond says, coughing. "So you're done weeding out the Templars from Florence?"

"Probably not all of them, but enough of them to quiet things down," Federico sighs. "But for now it seems safer."

"Hm," Desmond answers, looking away. They wouldn't be done that easily, would they? Not with Rodrigo Borgia still out there, and still in position of power. How long did it take Ezio to deal away with the Pazzi Conspiracy? Years, easily – two of which he spent in Monteriggioni just training and recovering from the loss of his father and brothers. It wasn't until almost twenty five years later that Ezio had his epic fist fight with Rodrigo Borgia, the actual _pope_ by then, in Vatican.

Now it's been barely a month, and well over half of the conspiracy is dead. That counts as a victory… right? Ezio's family living is definitely one. It has to be, no matter what Shaun says.

"What?" Federico asks, stepping closer and reaching his hand to Desmond's waist. "What is that look for, why do you look worried?"

"The Grandmaster escaped," Desmond reminds him. "Who knows what he will try to do next." Aside from trying to become Pope, anyway… Desmond's future knowledge no longer applies – they've changed the history too much. He has no idea what will happen next, just what the Templars want and what they might be planning.

Federico hums, considering him. "We'll deal with it when it happens, right?" he asks, running his hand up Desmond's side and settling it between his shoulder blades. "We can't stop living our lives because of some future threats. There's always some risk out there, it shouldn't hinder us from living and enjoying life."

Desmond sighs. "No, it shouldn't," he agrees and then shakes his head. "So, how long will you be gone?"

"A week or two, maybe," Federico says and, not very sneaky, pulls Desmond into his arms again. "It would be pretty rude just to show up, grab Mother, Claudia, Ezio and Petruccio and just run off with them – I have to make friendly with uncle first. It has been few years since I last saw him."

"Of course," Desmond agrees, swaying a little as Federico not so subtly manoeuvres him just so, pulling him close. "You are not very subtle," he points out wryly.

Federico grins at him. "I will miss you – I want to say goodbye properly," he says and leans in, brushing his their cheeks together and speaking to his ear, his voice getting a _tingling_ edge to it. "And carry some of you with me when I go so that I won't feel so lonely."

Desmond shudders – oh, _fuck_ , he thinks and grabs Federico by the shoulders, not sure if to push him away or pull him in. "What, you want a token of my affections?" Desmond asks with a huff. "Sorry, I don't have a ribbon to tie to your lance."

Then, as Federico bursts out into delighted, surprised laughter, Desmond groans. Yeah, that came out wrong, he thinks and shoves at the man's shoulders, embarrassed.

Federico leers at him, suggestive. "Now that could be interesting," he comments, running his hands up and down along Desmond's back. "But I don't think I could manage days on end with it."

"Oh, shut up," Desmond mutters and shoves at him again. "You're unbearable."

"But you bear me so well," Federico grins, and then leans in, resting their foreheads together. "Will you not say goodbye to me properly, my dearest ser Desmond, will you not bid me a fond farewell?"

Desmond draws a breath and closes his eyes.

Part of him still keeps hearing a brother's voice when Federico speaks. It would be easier if he could have grown old in memory like Ezio had – by the time Ezio went to Masyaf, the memory of his family no longer hurt him, and he could no longer remember their faces, their voices, their mannerisms. Federico was more a concept by then than an actual person, to Ezio. A name remembered fondly, it's bearer all but faded out in history.

But Desmond _hadn_ 't grown old – he'd experienced it all within weeks. So Ezio's older memories are still as fresh to him as his newer ones, and Federico still, sometimes, confuses his senses. If he slept with the guy now… God, he wants to, the thought alone sends a curl of heat through him, but it's a guilty sort of pleasure.

And he'd probably freak the hell out afterwards, if his current track record with Federico is anything to go by.

"Sorry," Desmond murmurs and trails hands over Federico's shoulders, letting out a huff of breath. "You're going to run out of patience with me."

Federico sighs, disappointed, and then kisses his cheek. "Never, my darling. I will wait for you to the ends of time if I have to," he says, to which Desmond has to smother a surprised, incredulous laugh. "You don't believe me? I'll prove it to you – I will wait, I will wait and I will wait – I will _suffer_ but I will wait, for as long as it takes."

"Stop it," Desmond snorts. "I'm not _that_ stuck – just give me a bit of time. And you're not suffering."

"I'm absolutely withering and dying but I will still wait," Federico swears and takes his face between his hands, stroking his thumbs down Desmond's cheeks. "Hear me, my dearest – I will _wait_ for you for as long as it takes."

Desmond sighs and does the only thing he can – and kisses him quiet.

* * *

 

Nothing had really gone as they'd planned. Not saving the world or even failing to save the world. Honestly, they'd all expected to die in the attempt, sooner rather than later and neither Desmond nor Shaun and Rebecca had expected the impromptu trip back in time. And Desmond definitely hadn't planned changing history – or falling for Federico Auditore of all people. None of it was planned.

It happened anyway. Life, Desmond muses, just does that – it just happens, uncaring about what they really think.

"It'll work out," Rebecca says, as they roam around the hideout, the house – they really need to come up with a name. The repairs are well on the way now, and they're planning décor – it's still up in the air whether they'd turn the place into a tavern. On one hand, it would work for outlooks, on other… having people in would be bit awkward.

"Shaun is a dick and he'll complain for few years but I think he gets it," Rebecca says. "Just give him little more time to make his peace with it."

"Hm," Desmond hums, folding his arms. "Do you regret it?" he asks, looking at her.

"A little," Rebecca admits honestly. "I don't know what kind of survival chances we really had, in the end, with the sun blowing up and all that, but… if we could've survived then… yeah, I think about it sometimes," she shrugs and looks at him. "I don't regret standing by you, though. Shaun doesn't either, never mind what he says. That was the right call, the _only_ right call."

Desmond bows his head a little at that and nods. "I'm sorry I kind of made a mess of this," he murmurs. "Meddling with the Auditore and all. Fucking up history."

"Psh," Rebecca says, sounding a lot like Shaun. "Seriously what were the chances of us living in the past, and not meddling with history?"

"Probably not very good," Desmond agrees.

"Even if we had gone after Altaïr's apple, that too would've been changing history. If we took it, then Ezio would've never found it, would've never probably gotten there at all because we would've had to get the keys ahead of him," Rebecca says. "And that Apple, the Masyaf Apple? It was the one Abstergo blew up in Denver – We take it out of history early and that's a whole bunch of stuff in history changed. Never mind what it would've done to _Connor's_ time if we got to the Grand Temple good four hundred years early."

"And at the end of it, there's still Juno," Desmond says quietly.

"Yeah," Rebecca mutters. "Can't really imagine her lending us a helping hand there, can you?"

Desmond snorts and shakes his head.

"Who knows, maybe we'll change history for the better," Rebecca says. "We've got five hundred years to save the world. Might not live that long, but it's enough time to set some stuff in motion, right? That's something, right?"

"Yeah," Desmond agrees, thinking of Federico, the Auditore – of Ezio. Ezio would be trained by his father in this time, he wouldn't have to figure things out on his own. Shaun is right about him probably not becoming the Mentor in this time, that same void isn't there in this time, but he'd still be an assassin. And with his family to come back to… Desmond thinks he'll be a better one. Definitely happier one.

And the rest of the Auditore would live. Giovanni, Petruccio… Federico.

As far as Desmond goes, that's already enough.

Rebecca looks at him. "So, tell me honestly, what are the chances of immortality?" she asks, smiling a little. "Because living back to see the dawn of computers would be pretty high on my bucket list, if I get to choose."

Desmond snorts and looks down, at his hands. "All things considered and all the things we've managed to do so far…" he says and flexes his tingling fingers. It's been weeks, but it still feels like there's lightning trapped under his skin. "Yeah, I really wouldn't put it past us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it, that's the end of it. It's not perfect but it is finished. And ripe for sequel if I ever get the inclination - not right now, though, I got another fic I wanna write next. Thank you all for reading and commenting, etc... till next time!


End file.
